“I don’t know.”
“You can’t wander about like that. Where’s the car you came in?”
“I shall walk.”
“What madness . . . there’s supposed to be a riot on . . . the police have struck, no one knows what’ll happen next. Why don’t you keep to your own people?”
“Ought I to join them?” she said, without emotion. She felt emptied, valueless; there was no more virtue in her.
“You can’t, it’s too late. How are you to get round to the private entrance now? Come this way with me—quick—I’ll put you into my carriage.”
“Cyril, Cyril, don’t leave me,” called the shattered voice of Aziz.
“I’m coming back. . . . This way, and don’t argue.” He gripped her arm. “Excuse manners, but I don’t know anyone’s position. Send my carriage back any time to-morrow, if you please.”
“But where am I to go in it?”
“Where you like. How should I know your arrangements?”