A few minutes later Charrington took her to the door of the "den," where Knight received her with casual cheerfulness.
"This is an unexpected pleasure!" he said.
"Don't let us bother with conventionalities, Don!" she exclaimed, her emotion showing itself in petulance. "I had to come and have an understanding with you."
"An understanding?" Knight was very calm, so calm that she—who knew him in many phases—was stung with the conviction that he needed to ask no questions. He was temporizing; and her anger—passionate, unavailing anger, beating itself like waves on the rock of his strong nature—broke out in tears.
"You know what I mean!" She choked on the words. "You're tired of me! There's nothing more I can do for you, and so—and so—oh, Don, say I'm wrong! Say it's a mistake. Say it's not you but she who doesn't want me. She's jealous. Only say that. It's all I want. Just to know it is not you who are so cruel—after the past!"
Knight remained unmoved. He looked straight at her, frowning. "What past?" he inquired, blankly.
"You ask me that—you?"
"We have never been anything to one another," Knight said. "Not even friends. You know that as well as I do. We've been valuable to each other after a fashion, I to you, you to me, and we can be the same in future if you don't choose to play the fool."
She was cowed, and hated herself for being cowed—hated Knight, too.
"What do you call playing the fool?" she asked.