Would it, after all, have been better to have deceived her and to have played the part of Rochester? That question occurred to him for a moment to be at once flung away. It was not so much personal antagonism to such a course nor the dread of madness owing to his double life that cast it out so violently, but the recognition of the goodness and lovableness of the woman. Leaving everything else aside to carry on such a deception with her, even to think of it, was impossible.
More than ever was he determined to clear this thing up and tell her all, and, to his honour be it said, his main motive now was to do his best by her.
He finished his cigar, and then going into the hall obtained his hat and left the house.
He did not know where the South Kensington Hotel might be, but a taxi solved that question and shortly before ten o’clock he reached his destination.
Yes, Lady Rochester had arrived last night and was staying in the hotel, and whilst the girl in the manager’s office was sending up his name and asking for an interview Jones took his seat in the lounge.
A long time—nearly ten minutes—elapsed, and then a boy brought him her answer in the form of a letter.
He opened it.
“Never again. This is good-bye.”
“T.”
That was the answer.