"Your mother has written to say that she wishes to leave at Michaelmas. Her letter was my excuse for calling."
May did not answer for a minute; she was busily pondering what her mother's reason could have been for arriving at this decision without consulting her. It might be that the relations between themselves and the Blands being somewhat strained, she had thought it wise to go somewhere else, or—and here May's heart quickened its beating—it might be that she feared a rival in Paul Lessing.
"I hope you are sorry to lose us," she said.
"Am I to tell the conventional falsehood or the truth?" Paul asked.
"The truth, of course; we have not studied conventionality much, have we?"
"Then I am unfeignedly glad," said Paul, deliberately.
May had turned rather white. "You don't mince matters certainly."
"No, I don't; but I prefer solitude to living perpetually within sight of unattainable happiness. Our friendship is destroyed, you remember; you admitted as much once. I cannot pretend that you are an ordinary acquaintance, and, therefore, to have you taken out of my reach is really the best thing that could happen to me."
"And you have left any wish I might have about it outside your calculation," said May.
"It cannot signify to you where you live. You will amuse yourself wherever you are."