"She may call," said Lionel, after a moment's pause, frowning, thrusting his hands into his pockets, and settling himself back into his chair; "she may call; I shall not go."
"You will not?"
"I will not--why should I?"
"If you can't answer that question for yourself, Lord Caterham, upon my soul I can't for you," said Bowker gruffly. "If you think you owe no reparation to the woman, your wife, whom you left to be rescued by strangers' charity from starvation, I cannot convince you of it: if you decline to accede to her dying request, I cannot enforce it."
"Why does not the--the gentleman who was so desperately in love with her, and whom she--she accepted--why does not he go to her?" said Lionel. He did not care for Margaret himself, but the thought that she had been something to any one else grated upon his pride.
"Ah, my God," said old Bowker, "how willingly would he; but it is not for him she asks--it is for you. You boast of your experience of women, and yet you know so little of them as to expect gratitude of them. Gratitude from a woman--gratitude--and yet, God knows, I ought not to say that--I ought not to say that."
"You seem to have had a singular experience, Mr. Bowker," said Lionel, "and one on which you can scarcely make up your mind. Where is this lady whom you wish me to see?"
"At Sydenham--within an hour's drive."
Lionel rang the bell. "Tell them to get the brougham round," said he to the servant who answered it. "Now, look here, Mr. Bowker; I am going with you thoroughly depending on your having told me the exact truth."
"You may depend on it," said old Bowker simply. And they started together.