"I wish you had not done it. It was a mistake," was all he said. Suddenly he felt thrown back upon himself, heartsick and cold. For the first time in his life he could not see her side of the question. The impassioned egotism of first love overwhelmed him.
"You met her on the night of the old Duchess' dance," Helen said.
"Yes."
"You have met her since?"
"Yes."
"It is useless for older people to interfere," she said. "We have loved each other very much. We have been happy together. But I can do nothing to help you. Oh! Donal, my own dear!"
Her involuntary movement of putting her hand to her throat was a piteous gesture.
"You are going away," she pleaded. "Don't let anything come between us—not now! It is not as if you were going to stay. When you come back perhaps—"
"I may never come back," he answered and as he said it he saw again the widowed girl who had hurried past him crying because he had saluted her. And he saw Robin as he had seen her the night before—Robin who belonged to no one—whom no one missed at any time when she went in or out—who could come and go and meet a man anywhere as if she were the only little soul in London. And yet who had always that pretty, untouched air.
"I only wanted to be sure. It was a mistake. We will never speak of it again," he added.