"But Robert—"
"Good heavens, don't talk of Robert. If I beg you not to, if I tell you it spoils things for me, if I ask you as a favour—" He stopped in front of her. "My dear, my little mate, my everything that's central and alive among the husks—"
"Of course I won't, then. At least, I'll try to remember not to," she said, looking at him with a smile that had effort in it as well as surprise. "But I don't see why a picture postcard—"
The steamer they had seen for so long, the last one of the day from Arona to Locarno, was nearing the pier, and the piazza suddenly swarmed with busy groups preparing to go on it or see each other off.
"Let's come away," said Ingram, impatiently. "Let's come away!" he repeated with a stamp of his foot. "I hate this crowd."
She got up and walked beside him towards the hôtel, her eyes on the ground.
"I really can't see why I shouldn't send Robert—" she began.
"Oh, damn Robert!" he exclaimed violently.
She looked at him. "Damn Robert?" she echoed, immensely surprised. "But—don't you like Robert?"
"No," said Ingram. "No," he said, even louder. "Not here. Not now. Now don't," he added in extreme irritation as he saw her mouth opening, "ask me why, don't ask me to explain. Go to bed, Ingeborg. It's time all children under ten were in bed. And get up early, please, because we're going to start the first thing for—anyhow, for somewhere else."