“Thank you,” she said, in a hoarse whisper. “I—I—we’d better go now, I think. Lady—Lady Jennings—”
She did not finish her sentence, but rose from her chair, put out a trembling hand for her sunshade, and began to walk up the long room.
When they were outside, Gerard, who was surprised and infinitely distressed at the unexpected effect of his words upon her, said humbly—
“Are you very angry with me?”
“Yes,” said Miss Davison.
But her tone belied her words: it was gentle, soft, womanly, almost tender.
He grew bolder.
“Not very angry, I think?” he suggested, as they stood in the gathering crowd on the curbstone, neither quite sure what they were going to do next.
“Yes, I’m very angry,” said she. “You’ve accused me of disgraceful things, and then you’ve dared—”
“Well, what have I dared?” ventured he, seeing that the anger she talked about was of the kind that usually melts on being challenged.