“You’ve forgotten the man,” she said cooly, with a slight nod of her hat. Gerald gave the porter a shilling. The man saluted. They were in motion.
“What was all the row about?” asked Gerald, in wondering excitement.
“I walked away with Birkin’s letter,” she said, and he saw the crushed paper in her hand.
His eyes glittered with satisfaction.
“Ah!” he said. “Splendid! A set of jackasses!”
“I could have killed them!” she cried in passion. “Dogs!—they are dogs! Why is Rupert such a fool as to write such letters to them? Why does he give himself away to such canaille? It’s a thing that cannot be borne.”
Gerald wondered over her strange passion.
And she could not rest any longer in London. They must go by the morning train from Charing Cross. As they drew over the bridge, in the train, having glimpses of the river between the great iron girders, she cried:
“I feel I could never see this foul town again—I couldn’t bear to come back to it.”