“If he is your friend, of course I have nothing more to say. I think I will turn in here and dine. Good-evening.”
They parted without any salutation: and Douglas entered the restaurant and dined alone, he came out an hour later in improved spirits, and began to consider whether he would go to the theatre or venture into his club. He was close to a lamp at a corner of Leicester Square when he stopped to debate the point with himself; and in his preoccupation he did not notice a four-wheeled cab going slowly past him, carrying a lady in an old white opera cloak. This was Mrs. Leith Fairfax, who, recognizing him, called to the cabman to drive a little past the lamp and stop.
“Good heavens!” she said in a half-whisper: “you here! What madness possessed you to come back?”
“I had no further occasion to stay away.”
“How coolly you say so! You have iron nerves, all you Douglases. I have heard all, and I know what you have suffered. How soon will you leave London?”
“I have no intention of leaving it at present.”
“But you cannot stay here.”
“Pray why not? Is not London large enough for any man who does not live by the breath of the world?”
“Out of the question, Mr. Douglas. Absolutely out of the question. You must go away for a year at the very least. You must yield something to propriety.”
“I shall yield nothing. I can do without any section of society that may feel called upon to do without me.”