A noisy rapping at the front door indicated that the cabby had deposited his load on the vehicle, and was waiting to take his fare. Still coughing, Gareth brushed past Kathleen, and into the hall.
"You can bring the box back here," she heard him say. "You won't be wanted to-night after all."
She made no movement to contradict. Short of undignified strugglings and vituperations on her part, she saw that for the moment he controlled the situation. She did not for an instant waver in her stubborn confidence still to reach Charing Cross that night in time for the ten-thirty. But that Gareth should dare thwart her; Gareth of all people; Gareth, the urging of whom to initiative had well-nigh sapped her of her own, now by initiative to shatter and frustrate her hopes; Gareth's interference was unbearable.
He re-entered the room, well-pleased with the decisive action he had just taken. Her eyes snapped fire at him from the shadow of her youthful, too youthful, brown picture-hat.
"Have I been so happy with you?"
"That's beside the point," sternly.
"Is it? Is it?"
"You happen to be mine."
"You can't stop me, if I wish to go."
She heard the cab rattling down the street, dying to silence. She would have to walk till she found another—scarce in that neighbourhood. Supposing that by the time she reached Charing Cross, the ten-thirty would have throbbed out of the station, and Napier with it; Napier, thinking her trust had at the last moment failed. A bitter foreboding of loss clouded her eyes ... the chance would not come to her again. Gareth, watching, thought it was thus he must have looked when the other book had crashed across his dream. And now they were both unhappy again, he and she, as they had always been; he would not have to hear her hum that maddening little tune to-night, while she creamed her arms and shoulders. To-night ... then she would still be here! ... a chill misgiving struck at his satisfaction. He lashed himself up again.