“Mrs. Hawley thinks we ought to stay here for a few days—or that I ought—while you make arrangements for building a new stable, and all that.”
“If you want to stay,” Manley agreed rather eagerly, “why, of course, you can. There's nothing out there to—”
“Oh, it doesn't matter in the slightest degree where I stay. I only mentioned it because I promised her I would speak to you about it.” There was more than languor in her tone.
“They're going to start the fireworks pretty quick,” Kent mentally diagnosed the situation and rose hurriedly. “Well, I've got to hunt a horse, myself, and pull out for the Wishbone,” he explained gratuitously. “Ought to've gone last night. Good-bye.” He closed the door behind him and shrugged his shoulders. “Now they can fight it out,” he told himself. “Glad I ain't a married man!”
However, they did not fight it out then. Kent had no more than reached the office when Val rose, hoped that Manley would please excuse her, and left the room also. Manley heard her go up-stairs, found out from Arline what was the number of Val's room, and followed her. The door was locked, but when he rapped upon it Val opened it an inch and held it so.
“Val, let me in. I want to talk with you. I—God knows how sorry I am—”
“If He does, that ought to be sufficient,” she answered coldly. “I don't feel like talking now—especially upon the subject you would choose. You're a man, supposedly. You must know what it is your duty to do. Please let us not discuss it—now or ever.
“But, Val—”
“I don't want to talk about it, I tell you! I won't—I can't. You must do without the conventional confession and absolution. You must have some sort of conscience—let that receive your penitence.” She started to close the door, but he caught it with his hand.
“Val—do you hate me?”