"Do not go on. It is of all speculations the most useless. Do not pursue the subject of Swansdown, I entreat you. Let"—with bitter meaning—"'sleeping dogs lie.'"
Baltimore laughs shortly.
"That is severe," says he.
"It is how I feel toward him; the light in which I regard him. If," turning a face to his that is hardly recognizable, so pale it is with ill-suppressed loathing, "he were lying on his deathbed and sent for me, it would give me pleasure to refuse to go to him."
She takes her hand from his arm and motions him to ascend the steps leading into the conservatory.
"But you?" says he, surprised.
"Let me remain here a little while. I am tired. My head aches, I——"
"Let me stay with you."
"No," smiling faintly. "What I want is to be alone. To feel the silence. Go. Do not be uneasy about me. Believe me you will be kind if you do as I ask you."
"It is a command," says he slowly. And slowly, too, he turns away from her.