"How easily you put us off!"
"Basil!—Please!"
He stared sulkily out of the window. "It does sting my pride that you care so much less than I. It does make me—almost doubt."
"Not so loud!"
"You don't realize how far away he is, and how absorbed.... I take back all I said." And he straightened himself coldly and went to his own part of the room.
A moment, and she followed him. "You are offended, Basil."
"No—hurt."
She sighed. "I will come to-night."
"You do not wish to come!"
"To be honest, no. I should feel—" She hesitated. She wished to be frank; but how could she be, when he was in that mood of doubt? How could she explain again that, in some respects, she loathed the memory of the times they had been stealthily together—the alarms, the narrow escapes from discovery—the commonness of it all—like those low intrigues that get into the newspapers, to make coarse mouths water and vulgar eyes sparkle? If she tried to tell him, he would misunderstand. "Not just yet," she went on. "I'm in a queer mood—not myself. You——"