She looked at him with wonder. She could not comprehend what was troubling him. “Darling, what’s the matter?” she asked, in dismay. “What I mean is that I’ve done what you always wanted me to do: I’ve broken loose; only I’ve chosen my opportunity, and arranged it so that people won’t talk.”
Still he did not take his eyes from her; but he removed his hand from her wrist. “You mean,” he said very slowly, “that you will return with the Bindanes, and finish up the Cairo season?”
“Well,” she answered, “I’ve got all sorts of more or less official engagements, you know.”
“This is to be just a stolen fortnight?” he asked, and she was frightened by the stern tones of his voice.
She nodded, and again her arms sought his shoulders. But he stepped back quickly from her, and his hand passed across has forehead.
“You are going to cover up your tracks with a pack of lies,” he said, his breath sounding like that of one in pain. “And then you are going back to your dances and your parties, pretending nothing has happened.”
“Oh, you don’t understand,” she cried. “I’ve given myself to you, body and soul.”
“Yes,” he scoffed, his voice rising. “You’ve given yourself to me for a fortnight. A sneaking fortnight that you think nobody will ever hear about. A fortnight sandwiched in between the middle and the end of the Cairo season, to fill up the blank time while your father is away.”
“But I never want to go back,” she answered, her voice trembling.
“If that is true,” he said, “why have you arranged everything for your return? You’ve given yourself to me, you say! Yes, for a stolen fortnight, as you call it yourself: it is to be just an underhand little intrigue. Good God!—and I believed you had given up everything for your love’s sake; and now I find you’ve given up nothing. You’ve taken all the necessary steps to prevent your action being decisive, to make your return to society perfectly easy. And I thought you had burnt your boats!”