But his flowers,—he wanted his birthday flowers in there because they were all that were left to him of his ruined birthday.
When she heard this order Lucy's heart rushed out to him. She shut the door softly and with her bare feet making no sound went up behind him.
He thought the parlourmaid had shut the door, and gone to carry out his order. Feeling an arm put round his shoulder he thought the parlourmaid hadn't gone to carry out his order, but had gone mad instead.
'Good God!' he exclaimed, jumping up.
At the sight of Lucy in her blanket, with her bare feet and her confused hair, his face changed. He stared at her without speaking.
'I've come to tell you—I've come to tell you——' she began.
Then she faltered, for his mouth was a mere hard line.
'Everard, darling,' she said entreatingly, lifting her face to his, 'let's be friends—please let's be friends—I'm so sorry—so sorry——'
His eyes ran over her. It was evident that all she had on was that blanket. A strange fury came into his face, and he turned his back on her and marched with a heavy tread to the door, a tread that made Lucy, for some reason she couldn't at first understand, think of Elgar. Why Elgar? part of her asked, puzzled, while the rest of her was blankly watching Wemyss. Of course: the march: Pomp and Circumstance.
At the door he turned and said, 'Since you thrust yourself into my room when I have shown you I don't desire your company you force me to leave it.'