“Oh,” she cried, “he wants me to go out to him!”
Winifred’s face set hard for a moment, but it relaxed again, and she contrived to hide her dismay.
“Then,” she suggested, “I suppose you’ll certainly go. After all, he’s probably not worse to live with than most of them.”
Miss Rawlinson was occasionally a little bitter, but, like others of her kind, she had been compelled to compete in an overcrowded market with hard-driven men. She was, however, sincerely attached to her friend, and she smiled when she saw the flash in Agatha’s eyes.
“Oh,” she added, “you needn’t try to wither me with your indignation. No doubt he’s precisely what he ought to be, and I dare say it will ease your feelings if you talk about him again; at least it will help you to formulate your reasons for going out to him. I’ll listen patiently, and try not to be uncharitable.”
Agatha fell in with the suggestion. It was a relief to talk, and she had a certain respect, which she would not always admit, for her friend’s shrewdness. She meant to go, but she desired to ascertain how a less interested person would regard the course that she had decided on.
“I have known Gregory since I was a girl,” she said.
Winifred pursed up her lips. “I understood you met him at the Grange, and you were only there for a few weeks once a year,” she replied. “After all, that isn’t a very great deal. It seems he fell in love with you, which is, perhaps, comprehensible. What I don’t quite know the reason for is why you fell in love with him.”
“Ah,” responded Agatha, “you have never seen Gregory.”
“I haven’t,” admitted Winifred sourly; “I have, however, seen his picture. One must admit that he’s reasonably good-looking. In fact, I’ve seen quite an assortment of photographs, but it’s, perhaps, significant that the last was taken some years ago.”