“Lydia!” he exclaimed blankly; and she felt in every fibre of her averted person that he had made the inconceivable, the unpardonable mistake of anticipating her acquiescence.
The train rattled on and he groped for a third cigarette. Lydia remained silent.
“I haven’t offended you?” he ventured at length, in the tone of a man who feels his way.
She shook her head with a sigh. “I thought you understood,” she moaned. Their eyes met and she moved back to his side.
“Do you want to know how not to offend me? By taking it for granted, once for all, that you’ve said your say on this odious question and that I’ve said mine, and that we stand just where we did this morning before that—that hateful paper came to spoil everything between us!”
“To spoil everything between us? What on earth do you mean? Aren’t you glad to be free?”
“I was free before.”
“Not to marry me,” he suggested.
“But I don’t want to marry you!” she cried.
She saw that he turned pale. “I’m obtuse, I suppose,” he said slowly. “I confess I don’t see what you’re driving at. Are you tired of the whole business? Or was I simply a—an excuse for getting away? Perhaps you didn’t care to travel alone? Was that it? And now you want to chuck me?” His voice had grown harsh. “You owe me a straight answer, you know; don’t be tender-hearted!”