“I was about to tell you, only you did not give me time.”
“That is a most awful cram,” said Agatha. “But no matter. Go on.”
Henrietta hesitated. Her dignity as a married woman, and the reality of her grief, revolted against the shallow acuteness of the schoolgirl. But she found herself no better able to resist Agatha’s domineering than she had been in her childhood, and much more desirous of obtaining her sympathy. Besides, she had already learnt to tell the story herself rather than leave its narration to others, whose accounts did not, she felt, put her case in the proper light. So she told Agatha of her marriage, her wild love for her husband, his wild love for her, and his mysterious disappearance without leaving word or sign behind him. She did not mention the letter.
“Have you had him searched for?” said Agatha, repressing an inclination to laugh.
“But where? Had I the remotest clue, I would follow him barefoot to the end of the world.”
“I think you ought to search all the rivers—you would have to do that barefoot. He must have fallen in somewhere, or fallen down some place.”
“No, no. Do you think I should be here if I thought his life in danger? I have reasons—I know that he is only gone away.”
“Oh, indeed! He took his portmanteau with him, did he? Perhaps he has gone to Paris to buy you something nice and give you a pleasant surprise.”
“No,” said Henrietta dejectedly. “He knew that I wanted nothing.”
“Then I suppose he got tired of you and ran away.”