Stephen Hurd stood up to take his leave.
“You are really going—soon?” he asked, as he bent over her carelessly offered hand.
“As soon as I can decide where to go to,” she answered.
“Can I give my father any message? Would you care to see him to-morrow morning?” he asked.
She shook her head.
“It is not necessary,” she answered.
He made his adieux reluctantly. Somehow he felt that the night had not been a success. She was going away. Very likely he would not see her again. The great house and all its glories would be closed to him. To do him justice, he thought of that less than the casual manner of her farewell. His vanity was deeply wounded. She had begun by being so gracious—no wonder that he had lost his head a little. He thought over the events of the last few days. Something had occurred to alter her. Could he have offended in any way?
He walked dejectedly home, heedless of the sodden path and wet grass. A light was still burning in the study. He hesitated for a moment, and then, turning the handle, entered.
“You’re late, father,” he remarked, going towards the cupboard to select a pipe.