"No, not there! I'm never going there again!" she cried, drawing back.
That she had some potent reason for that decision was evident to him. He did not ask her what it was. He guessed it.
"In that case," he said, "you must come to my house. I'm not going to leave you."
His determined tone put a stop to her spirit of rebelliousness. Passively she got into the cab and sat silent in its obscurity. When it stopped Chalfont opened his door with a latchkey. His servants had gone to bed, but in the room where Maggy had breakfasted with him there were sandwiches and consommé. He helped her to some of this, and she, beyond resistance now, took it. Then she shrank into the depths of the big chair which he had drawn up to the fire for her. She was unconscious of the tears of weakness that were welling from her eyes. Her hair had come down and was tumbled over her shoulders. Emotion had played havoc with her face.
Chalfont, watching her, was stirred by feelings that had their birth in pity. If they were gathering force, changing into others more personal, more tender, there was nothing of disloyalty to the memory of the dead woman on whom he had once lavished great affection.
"Maggy," he said quietly, "he has left you."
She lifted heavy eyes.
"How—how did you know?"
"I thought it would come."
A dry sob broke from her. Then she said: "He really was on his honeymoon.... Did you know?"