“Not at all,” he assured her. “I am one of those fortunate persons who have outlived happiness and unhappiness. I have nothing to do but live—and pay off a few little debts.”
He rose directly afterwards, and she walked with him out to the gardens whence a short cut led to the village.
“I have not tried again to make you change your mind,” he said as they stood for a moment on the terrace. “If my wishes have any weight with you, I trust that you will do nothing without consulting Mr. Pengarth.”
“And you—” she faltered, “are you—never in London? Sha’n’t I see you again any time?”
“If you care to, by all means,” he answered. “Tell Mr. Pengarth to let me have your address. Goodbye! Thank you for taking care of my treasures so well.”
She held his cold hand in hers and suddenly raised it to her lips. Then she turned away and hurried indoors.
Wingrave stood still for a moment and gazed at his hand through the darkness as though the ghosts of dead things had flitted out from the dark laurel shrubs. Then he laughed quietly to himself.