Tavernake shrugged his shoulders.
“I had to have it,” he said simply.
“The power of the purse again!” she laughed. “Now that you are here, I don't believe that you are a bit glad to see me. Are you?”
He did not answer for a moment. He was thinking of that vigil upon the Embankment, of the long walk home, of the battle with himself, the continual striving to tear from his heart this new thing, for which, with a curious and most masculine inconsistency, he persisted in holding her responsible.
“You know, Leonard,” she continued, getting up abruptly and beginning to make the tea, “I believe that you are angry with me. If you are, all I can say is that you are a very foolish person. I had to come away. Can't you see that?”
“I cannot,” he answered stolidly.
She sighed.
“You are not a reasonable person,” she declared. “I suppose it is because you have led such a queer life, and had no womenfolk to look after you. You don't understand. It was absurd, in a way, that I should ever have called myself your sister, that we should even have attempted such a ridiculous experiment. But after—after the other night—”
“Can't we forget that?” he interrupted.
She raised her eyes and looked at him.