She shuddered, but said nothing.
The evening before they were to sail, Phoebe sat alone, in her black dress, tired with work, and asking herself, sick at heart, could she ever really leave England, when the door opened softly, and Reginald Falcon, shabbily dressed, came in, and threw himself into a chair.
She started up with a scream, then sank down again, trembling, and turned her face to the wall.
“So you are going to run away from me!” said he savagely.
“Ay, Reginald,” said she meekly.
“This is your fine love, is it?”
“You have worn it out, dear,” she said softly, without turning her head from the wall.
“I wish I could say as much; but, curse it, every time I leave you I learn to love you more. I am never really happy but when I am with you.”
“Bless you for saying that, dear. I often thought you MUST find that out one day; but you took too long.”
“Oh, better late than never. Phoebe! Can you have the heart to go to the Cape, and leave me all alone in the world, with nobody that really cares for me? Surely you are not obliged to go.”