“I find your questions impertinent, Mr. Aynesworth,” she answered.
There was a short silence. Aynesworth hated his task and hated himself. But most of all, he pitied the woman who sat by his side.
“No!” he said, “they are not impertinent. I am the looker-on, you know, and I have seen—a good deal. If Wingrave were an ordinary sort of man, I should never have dared to interfere. If you had been an ordinary sort of woman, I might not have cared to.”
She half rose in her chair.
“I shall not stay here,” she began, struggling with her rug.
“Do!” he begged. “I am—I want to be your friend, really!”
“You are supposed to be his,” she reminded him.
He shook his head.
“I am his secretary. There is no question of friendship between us. For the rest, I told him that I should speak to you.”
“You have no right to discuss me at all,” she declared vehemently.