Left alone she began to cry quietly, and this gave her a measure of relief. Before Lacour returned, she had time to dry her eyes and survey the room again. Her prettiness was of the kind which suffers rather from the signs of distress; she knew it, and it was a fresh source of trouble. She still did not look up when Lacour, conventionally attired, took his stand before the fire-place.
“It’s a hideous morning,” he began, with as much ease of manner as he could command. “Whatever can have brought you out in such weather?”
“Is it true what father has just told me?” broke from her lips; “is it true that you are going to marry Ada Warren?”
“Yes,” replied Lacour with gravity, “it is true. I supposed you knew long since.”
“Oh, it is cruel of you!” cried the girl passionately. “How can you speak to me in that way?”
She hid her face upon the head of the sofa and wept unrestrainedly. Lacour was uncomfortable. He took up a paper-knife and played with it, then seated himself by the table, rested his elbow on it and watched her, his own features a good deal troubled.
“Miss Meres——,” he began, but her smothered voice interrupted him.
“You did not call me that the last time we were together,” she sobbed. “Why do you try to put a distance between us in that way? It is not three months since that day when I met you—you asked me to—at South Kensington, and you speak as if it was years ago. You must have gone straight from me to—to her!”
Lacour had an eye for the quiet irony of circumstances; it almost amused him to reflect how literally true her words were. None the less he was troubled by her distress.
“Rhoda,” he said, leaning forward and speaking with calm reproof, “this is altogether unworthy of you. I thought you so perfectly understood; I thought it had all been made clear between us. Now do give up crying, there’s a good girl, and come to the fire. You look wretchedly cold. Take your hat off—won’t you?”