“Oh, no,” she said, “I—I quite understand now. I was importunate and at an infelicitous time. I recognize that I brought it upon myself. Well, people will forget about it presently—a new sensation will come along,” she smiled faintly.
“I was in a vile temper that afternoon, certainly,” he said, “and I treated you shamefully. But what I do want to make [p150] you realize is that I would have cut off my hand rather than have made you—or any one—publicly ridiculous. Will you believe that?”
She only looked at him very gently and without speaking.
“Don’t you remember my coming up here—four or five days ago now? I was coming to tell you to burn the stuff, and then you know one of the youngsters stirred up an ant-bed and drove it out of my mind.”
“Yes,” she said politely; “oh, yes, that was quite enough to put it out of your head.” But she looked away from him.
“Then, as you know,” pursued Hugh, “I have been at the Caves ever since. But I took the precaution the moment I remembered to send you word.”
Now she was looking at him. “I received no message.”
“That scoundrelly young Larkin—do you say that he did not bring you a note from me?” he cried.
“No, I had no note,” she said faintly. “He must have lost it or have forgotten to bring it.”
“That is it,” said Hugh, “but I still blame myself. I ought to have turned back when I remembered and not have trusted a lad.”