“I can say nothing about it, except that I know how the misunderstanding arose.”
Rhoda was betraying the effort it had cost her to seem so self-possessed when she entered. Her colour had deepened, and she spoke hurriedly, unevenly.
“And it didn’t occur to you that it would be a kindness, not inconsistent with your dignity, to make me in some way acquainted with this fact?”
“I feel no uneasiness on your account.”
Everard laughed.
“Splendidly frank, as of old. You really didn’t care in the least how much I suffered?”
“You misunderstand me. I felt sure that you didn’t suffer at all.”
“Ah, I see. You imagined me calm in the assurance that I should some day be justified.”
“I had every reason for imagining it,” rejoined Rhoda. “Otherwise, you would have given some sign.”
Of course he had deeply offended her by his persistent silence. He had intended to do so first of all; and afterwards—had thought it might be as well. Now that he had got over the difficulty of the meeting he enjoyed his sense of security. How the interview would end he know not; but on his side there would be nothing hasty, unconsidered, merely emotional. Had Rhoda any new revelation of personality within her resources?—that was the question. If so, he would be pleased to observe it. If not—why, it was only the end to which he had long ago looked forward.