He looked her in the face unwaveringly. It was the look which tormented her, not that which she yearned for. She could not move away her eyes.
'You are going away, Mr. Egremont?'
'Yes, I am going out of England for a week or two—perhaps for longer.'
It was wrong—all wrong. In spite of himself he could not but admit a note of pathos. The automatic voice of politeness would not come at his bidding. He should have left her on the other side of the bridge, where the harsh bells allowed no delicacies of tone.
'To France?' she asked.
'No. To an island very near France. I must not keep you standing here, Miss Trent. It is very cold.'
Yes, the wind was cold, but perspiration covered his face.
'Please—only a minute. May I go to the library and do some more of the books? Are they all finished?'
'No. There's still one case of them, and more will be coming. Certainly you may go there if you wish.'
Her voice fell.