"I was expecting you," said Reuben, without offering his hand.
"So was I you—three days ago."
"Sit down, and let us talk. I'm ashamed of myself, Mallard. I ought at all events to have written."
"One would have thought so."
"Have you seen Mrs. Lessingham?"
"Yes."
"Then you understand everything. I repeat that I am ashamed of my behaviour to you. For days—since last Saturday—I have been little better than a madman. On Saturday I went to say good-bye to Mrs. Lessingham and her niece; it was bona fide, Mallard."
"In your sense of the phrase. Go on."
"I tell you, I then meant to leave Naples," pursued Elgar, who had repeated this so often to himself, by way of palliation, that he had come to think it true. "It was not my fault that I couldn't when that visit was over. It happened that I saw Miss Doran alone—sat talking with her till her aunt returned."
Mrs. Lessingham had made no mention of this little matter. Hearing of it, Mallard ejaculated mentally, "Idiot!"