“Men are enigmas,” I remarked. “It is precisely the unexpected which one has always to expect from them.”
“That is what they say about us,” she said.
I nodded.
“Don’t you think that most of the things that men say of women are more true about themselves? It seems so to me, at any rate.”
She rose up suddenly, and came and stood over me. She held out her hands, and I gave her mine. My eyes were dim. It was strange to me to find any one who understood.
“Would you like to go away with me to-morrow—right away from here?” she asked, softly.
“Where to?” I asked, with sudden joy.
“To London. Everything is ready for us there; we only need to send a telegram. I think—perhaps—it would be good for you.”
“I am sure of it,” I answered, quickly. “I have a sort of fancy that if I stay here I shall go mad. The place is hateful.”