“Not to-day.”
“Not to-day, and only two from your mother since we’ve been here.”
“I must go all the same,” he said, taking refuge in obstinacy. “I’ve been pleasuring too long.”
Evidently and unusually she was puzzled.
“But,” she said slowly, at last, “but—I don’t understand. You can’t go all in a minute. We have to see Syracuse and Palermo, and—a great many things. Indeed, Walter, you can’t! It wouldn’t be right. Why should you? I remember you told me you would not go home until you took me.”
“Things change.”
“What has changed?”
He looked at her, and thought bitterly how little she knew that she was pleading against herself—against his better self. The other half of him wanted to stay, swore it was folly to give up an hour of the only happiness which life still held, and all for a scruple. He was going to stick to Sylvia. That much stood firm amid the general earthquake.
“I’d better go,” he said doggedly.
“Oh, no,” returned Sylvia decidedly; “you mustn’t.” After a momentary pause she added, “It would be so odd!”