I saw her hand tighten upon her sunshade. “You are under some bad influence or other,” said Delia. “You should give it up. I never knew any one change as you have done.”
“Delia!” I said, lapsing into the pathetic. “Pity me. Augh! Delia! Pit—y me!”
She eyed me critically. “Why you keep playing the fool like this I don’t know,” she said. “Anyhow, I really cannot go about with a man who behaves as you do. You made us both ridiculous on Wednesday. Frankly, I dislike you, as you are now. I met you here to tell you so—as it’s about the only place where we can be sure of being alone together—”
“Delia!” said I, with intensity, knuckles of clenched hands white. “You don’t mean—”
“I do,” said Delia. “A woman’s lot is sad enough at the best of times. But with you—”
I clapped my hand on my brow.
“So, good-bye,” said Delia, without emotion.
“Oh, Delia!” I said. “Not this?”
“Good-bye, Mr. Cummins,” she said.
By a violent effort I controlled myself and touched her hand. I tried to say some word of explanation to her. She looked into my working face and winced. “I must do it,” she said hopelessly. Then she turned from me and began walking rapidly down the gallery.