“Oh, you must subdue that imperious nature of yours for your mother’s sake if not for your own. Besides, you have been very wicked and reckless and daring, just like a Douglas. You ought to do penance with a good grace. I may conclude, since you are here, that Elinor McQuinch’s story is true as far as the facts go.”
“I have not heard her story.”
“It is only that you have parted from—you know.”
“That is true. Can I gratify your curiosity in any other particular?”
“Strive not to let yourself be soured, Mr. Douglas. I shudder when I think of what you have undergone at the hands of one woman. There! I will not allude to it again.”
“You will do wisely, Mrs. Leith Fairfax. What I have suffered, I have suffered. I desire no pity, and will endure none.”
“That is so like yourself. I must hurry on to Covent Garden, or I shall be late. Will you come and see me quietly some day before you go? I am never at home to any one on Tuesdays; but if you come at about five, Caroline will let you in. It will be dark: nobody will see you. We can have a chat then.”
“Thank you,” said Douglas, coldly, stepping back, and raising his hat, “I shall not intrude on you. Good-evening.”
She waved her hand at him; and the cab departed. He walked quickly back to Charles Street, and called his servant.
“I suppose no one has called?”