He paused midway toward the bell and turned on her. “Then may I ask—?”
“Yes,” she interrupted him. “I came here because I wanted to see you. There is something I must tell you.”
Arment continued to scrutinize her. “I am surprised at that,” he said. “I should have supposed that any communication you may wish to make could have been made through our lawyers.”
“Our lawyers!” She burst into a little laugh. “I don’t think they could help me—this time.”
Arment’s face took on a barricaded look. “If there is any question of help—of course—”
It struck her, whimsically, that she had seen that look when some shabby devil called with a subscription-book. Perhaps he thought she wanted him to put his name down for so much in sympathy—or even in money... The thought made her laugh again. She saw his look change slowly to perplexity. All his facial changes were slow, and she remembered, suddenly, how it had once diverted her to shift that lumbering scenery with a word. For the first time it struck her that she had been cruel. “There is a question of help,” she said in a softer key: “you can help me; but only by listening... I want to tell you something...”
Arment’s resistance was not yielding. “Would it not be easier to—write?” he suggested.
She shook her head. “There is no time to write... and it won’t take long.” She raised her head and their eyes met. “My husband has left me,” she said.
“Westall—?” he stammered, reddening again.
“Yes. This morning. Just as I left you. Because he was tired of me.”