‘Well, what are you going to do?’ asked Christopher, defiant on the threshold, waiting for his punishment. He knew it would be punishment; he saw by her face. But whatever it was, if it didn’t kill him he would bear it, and then, when it was over, begin again.
She moved aside and pointed to the drawing-room door. ‘Ask you to come in,’ she said.
VIII
Christopher stared.
‘I’m to—come in?’ he stammered, bewildered.
‘Please.’
‘Oh, my darling!’ he burst out, throwing down her cloak and coming in with a rush.
But she held up her hand, exactly as if he were the traffic in Piccadilly, and remarked, so coldly that all that was left to him was once more bewilderment, ‘Not at all.’
‘Not at all?’ he could only stupidly repeat.
‘Please come into the drawing-room,’ said Catherine, walking into it herself. ‘I want to tell you something.’