‘Well,’ she said at length, ‘there’s no helping it now. Come and have your dinner.’
‘You have taken away my appetite.’
‘Nonsense! I suppose you’re dying of hunger.’
They had a very uncomfortable meal, exchanging few words. On Amy’s face was a look more resembling bad temper than anything Reardon had ever seen there. After dinner he went and sat alone in the study. Amy did not come near him. He grew stubbornly angry; remembering the pain he had gone through, he felt that Amy’s behaviour to him was cruel. She must come and speak when she would.
At six o’clock she showed her face in the doorway and asked if he would come to tea.
‘Thank you,’ he replied, ‘I had rather stay here.’
‘As you please.’
And he sat alone until about nine. It was only then he recollected that he must send a note to the publishers, calling their attention to the parcel he had left. He wrote it, and closed with a request that they would let him hear as soon as they conveniently could. As he was putting on his hat and coat to go out and post the letter Amy opened the dining-room door.
‘You’re going out?’
‘Yes.’