He left early. It certainly had not been a pleasant evening for him. He had scarcely been able to speak, with Claudine present. But when he was going, and had said good-night to Andrée, who hadn’t risen, she followed him out to the front door.
“Mr. Malloy!” she said. “Have you told—Edna?”
“No ...” he said. “I’m ashamed to say I haven’t.... But of course I shall....”
“Don’t!” she entreated. “Please don’t! Not just yet! If you can—won’t you go to see her as usual?”
“But—do you think that’s—honourable?” he asked, shocked.
“It’s kind, Mr. Malloy!”
“But—isn’t it—only putting it off, you know?”
“Sometimes it’s better to do that,” she said. “Please, Mr. Malloy, if you are able to—?”
“I’ll try!” he said, quite miserably. “I suppose you don’t want—me to say anything—until you’re home again?”
“Yes,” she answered.