“He has gone now,” she replied irrelevantly, as if even then she seemed hardly to realise it.
“It appears to upset you—his going—who is it?”
“He!—Oh,—why, it’s George Saxton.”
“Oh, him!”
“Yes.”
“What did he want?”
“Eh? What did he want? Oh, nothing.”
“A mere trysting—in the interim, eh!”—he said this laughing, generously passing off his annoyance in a jest.
“I feel so sorry,” she said.
“What for?”