Maurice, who was on tenterhooks, subdued his impatience as long as he could. Finally, he emptied his cup at a draught, and pushed it away.
"You wanted to speak to me, you said."—His manner was curt, from sheer nervousness.
His voice startled her. "Yes, I have something to tell you," she said, with a hesitation he did not know in her. "But I must go back a little.—If you remember, Maurice, you wrote to me while I was away, didn't you?" she said, and looked not at him, but at her hands clasped before her. "You gave me a number of excellent reasons why it would be better for me not to come back here. I didn't answer your letter at the time because ... What should you say, Maurice, if I told you now, that I intended to take your advice?"
"You are going away?" The words jerked out gratingly, of themselves.
"Perhaps.—That is what I want to speak to you about. I have a chance of doing so."
"Chance? How chance?" he asked sharply.
"That's what I am going to tell you, if you will give me time."
Drawing a letter from her pocket, she smoothed the creases out of the envelope, and handed it to him.
While he read it, she looked away, looked over the enclosure. Some people were crossing it, and she followed them with her eyes, though she had often seen their counterparts before. A man in a heavy ulster—notwithstanding the mildness of the day—stalked on ahead, unconcerned about the fate of his family, which dragged, a woman and two children, in the rear: like savages, thought Louise, where the male goes first, to scent danger. But the crackling of paper recalled her attention; Maurice was folding the sheet, and replacing it in the envelope, with a ludicrous precision. His face had taken on a pinched expression, and he handed the letter back to her without a word.
She looked at him, expecting him to say something; but he was obdurate. "This was what I was waiting all these days to tell you," she said.