“Do you mean the door?”
“Exactly. I was afraid after I came away that you might do something in a hurry––”
“It’ll have to be in a hurry if I do it at all.”
“Oh, I don’t see that. In any case, I’d—I’d think it over. Perhaps we could have another talk about it, and then––”
Something was said which sounded like a faint, “Very well,” so that Barbara put up the receiver.
Her conscience relieved she could open the dams keeping back the fiercer tides of her anger. Rash had talked about her to this girl! He had given her to understand that she was a fool! He had allowed it to appear that “he didn’t think much of her!” No matter 206 what he had said, the girl had been able to make these inferences. What was more, these inferences might be true. Perhaps he didn’t think much of her! Perhaps he only thought he was in love with her! The idea was so terrible that it stilled her, as approaching seismic storm will still the elements. She moved about the drawing-room, taking off her gloves, her veil, her hat, and laying them together on a table, as if she was afraid to make a sound. She was standing beside that table, not knowing what to do next, or where to go, when Wildgoose came to the door to announce, “Mr. Allerton.”
“I’ve seen her.” Without other form of greeting, or moving from beside the table, she picked up her gloves, threw them down again, picked them up again, threw them down again, with the nervous action of the hands which betrayed suppressed excitement. “I didn’t believe her—quite.”
“But you didn’t disbelieve her—wholly?”
“It’s a difficult case.”
“I’ve got you into an awful scrape, Barbe.”