“We did not say good-night, Helen,” he said. “We were both——“
She raised her eyes to him.
“Ah, don’t let us discuss it any more to-night,” she said.
“No, dear. I only wanted to say good-night to you, to—to say that I am sorry for leaving in the manner I did. You look very tired. Will you not go to bed.”
“Yes; soon perhaps.”
She kissed him, and stood silent a moment, fingering the lappel of his coat.
“If we did not care for each other it would be easier,” she said. “Poor father! Good-night, dear. Thank you for coming.”
It had been arranged that Frank should bring the motor over again next morning and drive Helen back to Fareham to lunch with Lady Sunningdale, and he made his appearance rather sooner than expected, having driven, as he acknowledged, a little over the regulation two miles an hour. Helen had heard the approach of wheels, and met him at the door. One glance at her face was enough to tell him that something, and what that was he easily guessed, had happened.
“Father is in,” she said; “he waited in on purpose to see you. Yes; he knows.”
“You told him? Well?”