And then Mrs. Larpent got up. "I see," she said, and held out her hand. "Well, I, at any rate, have not beaten about the bush, and you have spared my feelings with very real kindness. And so good night!"
"Good night!" said Franklin.
"You can think of nothing else that you would like to say?"
Franklin had something else to say,—the question of a certain sum of money. But, like a horse brought nose up to a high jump, he refused, shook his head, and immediately added, "Yes. I'm awfully sorry about all this. Please accept my humble apologies."
Mrs. Larpent bowed, but the gracious smile on her lips was contradicted by her eyes. They were full of pain and anger. And while she still held Franklin's hand she registered an oath that she would leave no stone unturned to make him forget his honesty before many months had passed and lead her willingly into a new and beautiful dream.
"How long are you staying here?" he asked.
"I'm leaving to-morrow," she said. "It isn't awfully amusing to go through the jealous agonies of hell."
"I'll write to your apartment," said Franklin, stumbling a little over the words.
"Thank you." She took his meaning and was certain of his generosity.
He watched her go, moving with a sort of medieval dignity, an almost uncanny suggestion of having stepped out of an old frame to return to it before the finger of dawn began to rub away the night.