“He doesn’t write. And I don’t write either.”
“And Lady Sandgate?” Hugh once more ventured.
“Doesn’t she write?”
“Doesn’t she hear?” said the young man, treating the other form of the question as a shade evasive.
“I’ve asked her not to tell me,” his friend replied—“that is if he simply holds out.”
“So that as she doesn’t tell you”—Hugh was clear for the inference—“he of course does hold out.” To which he added almost accusingly while his eyes searched her: “But your case is really bad.”
She confessed to it after a moment, but as if vaguely enjoying it. “My case is really bad.”
He had a vividness of impatience and contrition. 197
“And it’s I who—all too blunderingly!—have made it so?”
“I’ve made it so myself,” she said with a high head-shake, “and you, on the contrary—!” But here she checked her emphasis.