"Thanks," said Ronnie, noting down particulars. Then he walked rapidly back to the hotel.
"I can't stand it," he said. "I shall bolt! With me off her hands, she can go and have a jolly Christmas at the Dalmains. She is always welcome there. I must get away alone and think matters out. I know everything is all wrong, and yet I don't exactly know what has come between us. I only know I am wretched, and so is she. It is still the poison of the Upas. If I knew why she suddenly considered me utterly, preposterously, altogether, selfish, I would do my level best to put it right. But I don't."
He found Helen in the hall, anxiously watching the door. She took up a paper, as he came in.
"Helen," he said, "do you mind if we lunch punctually at one o'clock? I am going out before two."
"Why, certainly we will," said Helen. "You must have had a very early breakfast, Ronnie. But don't overdo, darling. Remember what Dick said. Shall I come with you?"
"I would rather go alone," said Ronnie. "I want to think things over."
She rose and stood beside him.
"Ronnie dear, we seem to have lost all count of days. But, as a matter of fact, to-morrow is Christmas Day. Would you like to go home this afternoon? We can order a car for two o'clock, and be at the Grange for tea. Ronnie, wouldn't it be rather lovely? Think of the little cosy tea-table, and your own especial chair, and the soft lamp-light—"
She paused abruptly. The mental picture had recalled to both the evening on which they last stood together in that golden lamplight.
Ronnie hesitated, looking at the floor. Then he raised his eyes to Helen's. "I don't think I could bear it," he said, turned from her quickly, and went upstairs.