She flew down the stairs and opened the front door.
“Come in, Alfred!” she said.
He followed her into the sitting-room and stood before her, still in his overcoat and cap.
“So she’s out there with him?” he said. “Do you think that’s a fair way to treat me?”
“I’m sorry, Alfred. Very sorry. I had no idea he would come this evening. I wouldn’t for worlds have—”
“He does come to see her then? In your house? And you don’t mind?”
“Please sit down!” she said, gently. “I am so glad you came. I wanted so to talk to you—to explain—”
He took off his overcoat and cap and threw them on a chair. He was thinner; his face had lost its boyish and alert expression, it was set in an expression of bitterness and misery.
“I didn’t want to come,” he said. “It can’t do any good. I knew what you thought would happen. You thought if we saw each other we’d—melt. That she’d change her mind. Well, I don’t want that. We’ve had enough emotion. I don’t want any—love that comes from caprice. No more moods and impulses. I—it wasn’t that way with me. It was—real.”
“Alfred, you mustn’t be hard! It’s not like you. If you love her, you must forgive her a hundred times. She’s silly and—”