“What is it, Mr. Povey?”
“Oh!” said Mr. Povey, facing her with absurd nervous brusqueness, as though pretending: “Ah, yes! We have something to say—I was forgetting!” Then he began: “It’s about Constance and me.”
Yes, they had evidently plotted this interview. Constance had evidently taken herself off on purpose to leave Mr. Povey unhampered. They were in league. The inevitable had come. No sleep! No repose! Nothing but worry once more!
“I’m not at all satisfied with the present situation,” said Mr. Povey, in a tone that corresponded to his words.
“I don’t know what you mean, Mr. Povey,” said Mrs. Baines stiffly. This was a simple lie.
“Well, really, Mrs. Baines!” Mr. Povey protested, “I suppose you won’t deny that you know there is something between me and Constance? I suppose you won’t deny that?”
“What is there between you and Constance? I can assure you I—”
“That depends on you,” Mr. Povey interrupted her. When he was nervous his manners deteriorated into a behaviour that resembled rudeness. “That depends on you!” he repeated grimly.
“But—”
“Are we to be engaged or are we not?” pursued Mr. Povey, as though Mrs. Baines had been guilty of some grave lapse and he was determined not to spare her. “That’s what I think ought to be settled, one way or the other. I wish to be perfectly open and aboveboard—in the future, as I have been in the past.”