But, with the air of his mind cleared by this explosion, and when he saw how the girl had collapsed under his brutality, he felt suddenly sorry for her, and sick and tired.
“Look here, Irene!” he said, taking her arm. “I didn’t mean all that. Only, honestly, you don’t care anything for me. You’ve just built up an imaginary me and lavish an imaginary love on him. Forgive me for being so rough.”
What he said this time was true beyond a doubt, though Irene could hardly be expected to believe it. For when he took her arm she did not draw close to him in delight; she shrank instinctively from his touch. She was sobbing, but he was probably quite right in thinking that it was from anger and shame. She controlled herself presently and wiped her eyes.
“Well, then, I’ll be going,” she remarked, in a strangled voice.
He went to the door with her. “Good night, Irene,” he said cordially, shaking her hand.
“I—I’m sorry to have—put you out,” she said absurdly.
“Oh, that’s all right!” he replied, with a touch of amusement. “Good night.”
Stacey returned to Whittaker. “Sorry to keep you so long,” he observed.
“No harm in that,” the other returned genially, “so long as you leave me in such good company.” He waved his hand toward the carafe.
“Yes, good stuff, isn’t it?” said Stacey, and took a stiff drink.