She flushed.
"You have not the shadow of right to say that."
"I do say it."
She put out her hand to him with a touch of appeal.
"Please—won't you leave Clare out of it? You are utterly wrong. You see, you don't know her. If you did you would understand. I am so grateful to you for being kind. I don't want to be angry. But I must, if you talk like that. Please—if you can, make me sure it wasn't my fault. But if it involves Clare—I'd rather go on being—not not quite happy. Yet I hoped, perhaps, you would help me."
"Of course I'm helping you," he said, quick to catch and adopt her tone. He had no wish to intimidate her. He liked her pathetic little dignities and loyalties. He was, so far, content; he had, he knew, in spite of her protestations, sown a seed of distrust in her mind. Time would ripen it. He felt no compunction in enlightening her blind devotion. He had quick antipathies, and he had conceived an idea of Clare Hartill that would have appalled Alwynne, and which justified to himself any measure that he might see fit to take. In his own mind he referred to her as "that poisonous female." There were no half-measures with Roger.
CHAPTER XXXV
Alwynne leant back in her chair and regarded Roger with some intentness.