“You are very hard, Tom. You saw him once before, why not again?”
“If he, or his friends for him, require medical advice, I suppose they are capable of sending for it,” he said, adding with sudden fierceness, as it seemed to her, “Monica, Conrad Fitzgerald, ill or well, is nothing to you. It is not fit you should waste a single thought upon that scoundrel again!”
She was surprised at his vehemence; it was so unlike Tom to speak with heat. What had there been in her account of the meeting to discompose him so greatly? Before she could attempt to frame the question, he had asked one of her—asked it abruptly, as it seemed irrelevantly.
“How long has Fitzgerald been in these parts?”
“I don’t know? I have never seen him till to-night, nor heard of him at all?”
“Nor I. Go in, Monica. It is too late for you to be out.”
“And you?”
“I will come presently.”
“And you will think about what I asked you?”
“I will think about it—yes.”