“The fog certainly cannot be so thick now. Shall I ask them to try and get you a cab?”
“I shall walk to the station.”
“Only one more word.” She assumed a quiet dignity which he could not disregard. “We have spoken in this way for the last time. You will not oblige me to take all sorts of trouble merely to avoid useless and painful conversations?”
“I love you, and I can’t abandon hope.”
“Then I must take that trouble.” Her face darkened, and she stood in expectation of his departure.
“I mustn’t offer to shake hands,” said Everard, drawing a step nearer.
“I hope you can remember that I had no choice but to be your hostess.”
The face and tone affected him with a brief shame. Bending his head, he approached her, and held her offered hand, without pressure, only for an instant.
Then he left the room.
There was a little improvement in the night; he could make his way along the pavement without actual groping, and no unpleasant adventure checked him before he reached the station. Rhoda’s face and figure went before him. He was not downcast; for all that she had said, this woman, soon or late, would yield herself; he had a strange, unreasoning assurance of it. Perhaps the obstinacy of his temper supplied him with that confident expectation. He no longer cared on what terms he obtained her—legal marriage or free union—it was indifferent to him. But her life should be linked with his if fierce energy of will meant anything.