The reproach in her voice was plain, and he resented it. She had left him to go his own way, and he had gone it. What business was it of hers now?
'You forget the racing and the betting,' he answered coolly; 'and my incurable idleness has at least this virtue--it leaves me, as I said, at Lady Arbuthnot's disposal.'
He gave a little formal bow, which sent another pang of memory through her. The fact annoyed her. How intolerable it was, that despite his degeneration into a high-class grocer--here she smiled faintly--he could scarcely speak a word to her, here in the semi-darkness--they two alone--without bringing back---- Ah! so much! Yes! it was intolerable. It must be ignored; or rather the solid, sensible facts must be dragged out into the daylight and given their real significance.
'I am glad of that,' she replied, 'for I want you to help me. But let us sit down--people will be less likely to disturb us then.'
He obeyed, feeling restive under her calm superiority, yet admiring it. She was no failure, anyhow; he had been right in his choice, years ago. Not that it mattered; since all that had once been between them had been forgotten--by him at any rate. Absolutely forgotten.
'Mr. Raymond!' she began suddenly, leaning closer to him over the table, 'surely it would be foolish in either of us to be ashamed, or to pretend forgetfulness of the close tie that was between us--once.'
'I have not forgotten,' he said involuntarily, then paused disconcerted at his own collapse. Which was true, his denial or affirmation of memory? Both, in a way.
She smiled, as women do, at remembrance, even when they believe they wish forgetfulness.
'I said pretend, Mr. Raymond!' she corrected. 'We are not likely to forget. Why should we?'
'On the other hand, why should we remember?' he asked. 'The past, Lady Arbuthnot, is past.'