He dropped his cigarette-end into his emptied glass.
"Yes," he answered, frowning. "For God's sake, don't put me through a catechism, Doris!" He rose from his chair, looking round for his hat.
"Shall I walk back with you?" Andy asked.
"No, thanks. I'd rather be alone." His tone was still very injured, as though the two were in league with one another, and with all the world, to persecute him. He came up to the Nun. "I shan't see you again for a bit, I expect. Good-bye, Doris." He held out his hand to her. The Nun interlaced her hands on the table in front of her.
"I won't!" she said. "I won't shake hands with you to-night, Harry Belfield. You've broken the heart of the sweetest girl I ever met. You've brought shame and misery on her—you who aren't fit to black her shoes! You've brought shame on your people. I suppose you've pretty well done for yourself in Meriton. And all for what? Because you must philander, must have your conquests, must always be proving to yourself that nobody can resist you!"
Harry looked morosely resentful at the indictment. "Oh, you can't understand. Nobody can understand who—who isn't made that way. You talk as if I'd meant to do it!"
"I think I'd rather you had meant to do it. That'd be rather less contemptible, I think."
"Gently, gently, Doris!" Andy interposed.
She turned on him. "Oh yes, it's always 'Gently, gently!' with Harry Belfield. He's to be indulged, and excused, and forgiven, and all the rest of it. Let him hear the truth for once, Andy. Even if it doesn't do him any good to hear it, it does me good to say it—lots of good!"
"You'd better go, Harry. You won't find her good company to-night. I'll be at the station to see you off to-morrow—before I see about the things at Nutley."