“Don’t be angry,” he said. “I did try, honour bright, but it’s no use; good-bye. I must see you again soon”; and he went out, closing the door behind him.
For some minutes Hal stood quite still, feeling a little dazed. She saw him cross the pavement, give some directions to Peter, and then drive away without a backward glance. She stood still a little longer, then slowly took off her hat, threw it on the sofa, ran her fingers through her hair and sat down.
After a little, the emptiness of the room seemed to oppress her, for though it was not cold, she jumped up and put a match to the fire. Then the landlady came in with her supper.
“’Ad a nice day, miss?” she asked pleasantly.
“Very nice. How’s Johnnie? Did you get to see him?” alluding to a small son boarded out at Highgate for his health.
“Yes; I went up to tea with ’im. ’E looks years better already.”
“I’m very glad.”
Hal sat down to her supper with a preoccupied air, and instead of having a little chat, she relapsed into silence, and the landlady departed. She felt vaguely that something had upset entirely the even tenor of her mind, and she wanted to think. Any other Sunday evening she would have told the landlady something about her motor-ride, for she and Dudley had now been in the same rooms for seven years, and it is quite a fallacy to condemn all London landladies as grasping, bad-tempered tyrants.
Hal was quite fond of Mrs. Carr, and had found her unwearingly thoughtful and attentive. But tonight she wanted to think, and was glad to be alone again, almost immediately returning to her arm chair over the fire.
She was conscious, in a vague, uncertain way, that though Sir Edwin had kissed her because he cared for her, he could not have acted so had he cared in an upright, honest-hearted manner. She attracted him, and he wanted all the pleasure he could get out of the attraction, but there, no doubt, it ended.