Peter put his hand on the handle of the carriage door.
“You go to London—like a puppy that rolls in dirt. You go to beastliness and vulgarity.... You’d better get in, Peter.”
“But look here, Joan!”
“Get in!” she scolded to his hesitation, and stamped her foot.
He got in mechanically, and she closed the door on him and turned the handle and stood holding it.
Then still speaking evenly and quietly, she said: “You’re a blind fool, Peter. What sort of love can that—that—that miscellany give you, that I couldn’t give? Have I no life? Have I no beauty? Are you afraid of me? Don’t you see—don’t you see? You go off to that! You trail yourself in the dirt and you trail my love in the dirt. Before a female hack!...
“Look at me!” she cried, holding her hands apart. “Think of me tonight.... Yours! Yours for the taking!”
The train was moving.
She walked along the platform to keep pace with him, and her eyes held his. “Peter,” she said; and then with amazing quiet intensity: “You damned fool!”
She hesitated on the verge of saying something more. She came towards the carriage. It wasn’t anything pleasant that she had in mind, to judge by her expression.