His eyes strayed over them, undecidedly, seeking—not help. I do not know what he sought, but his eyes found mine.
“You——” he said to me—“would you want your letter——?”
Anita’s voice thrust in sharply. In the instant the pleading, the beauty, the woman, was gone from it. It was cold and shrill.
“Jenny’s views can hardly concern us.”
But he did not listen to her. He had drawn some answer from me that satisfied him. He got up.
“Oh,” I cried beneath my breath, and I think I touched his arm—“you won’t let her?”
He shook his head. Then he went across to where Anita stood, her eyes on him, on me, while she listened to Miss Howe whispering at her shoulder.
“Look here, Anita!” he began.
“I’m looking,” she said.
He checked a moment, puzzled. Then he went on—