"We have been talking about ways," says she. "This," with a little significant gesture to the right, "is my way."
He lifts his brows and laughs, a very sad and dismal laugh, however.
"And therefore not mine," says he. "You are right so far. I meant to go on to Upsall Farm, but I should like to see you safely back to the avenue, at all events—if you will allow me?"
"No!" Tita has turned upon him like a little fury. All her rage and grief and misery has at last overpowered her. "I shall not allow you! I shall go nowhere with you! Our ways, as you say, are separate."
"As I say——"
"It doesn't matter," says she vehemently; "words are nothing. There is only meaning left, and what I mean is that I want never to go anywhere with you again."
"As you will, of course," says he, drawing back. Evidently it is to be war to the knife.
He could have laughed at himself as he leans back against a huge oak-tree and lights a cigar. Truly he is no Don Juan! The woman he loved did not love him to any measurable extent; the woman he married cares for him even less!
A very rage of anger against Tita is filling his breast, but now, standing here in the cold soft shades of the silent wood, his anger gives place to thought. By what right is he angry with her? By what right does he upbraid her? She knows all—everything. His mother had seen to that. Yes, his wife knows——
And yet, after all, what is there to condemn him for? What man under heaven has been so scrupulous, so careful as he? There had been that one night at the Warbeck's dance—but beyond that, never by word or look had he been unfaithful!