"My dear—I hope I have done right. I hope I have done right, my little girl."
She tried to smile as she kissed him.
"Can't I take you to Berkeley Square, Beryl?" asked Sir John.
She shook her head.
"No, thank you, John—goodbye."
They stood together, bareheaded, on the pavement, and saw her go. A drizzle of rain was falling, the dull red furnace glow of London was in the sky.
Together they walked back to the dining room and Maxton did not break in upon the doctor's thoughts.
"Thank God she's gone," he whispered at last, "John, I'm at the end, I know it. Perhaps he'll help after—I'll be satisfied if he makes Beryl happy."
"He could help now," said John Maxton. "Why do you deceive yourself? How can you hope for anything from Steppe? I wish to God I had known that this infernal marriage was for today."
"She wished it," said the doctor, "I should not have insisted, but she wished it. Steppe isn't a bad fellow—"