It had been with him at Stephen's death, it was with him far more intensely now. He looked at Bobby.
“She's gone,” in a tired, dull voice as of some one nearly asleep, “gone to Cardillac. I loved Cards—and all the time he loved Clare. I loved Clare and all the time she loved Cards. It's damned funny isn't it, Bobby, old man?”
He stood facing him in the hall, no part of him moving except his mouth. “She says I treated her like a brute. I don't think I did. She says there was something I did one night—I don't know. I've never done anything—I've never been with another woman—something about a cab—Perhaps it was poor Rose Bennett. Poor Rose Bennett—damned unhappy—so am I—so am I. I'm a lonely fellow—I always have been!”
He went past Bobby, back into the little drawing-room. Bobby followed him.
He turned round.
“You can go now, Bobby. I shan't want you any more.”
“No, I'm going to stay.”
“I don't want you—I don't want any one.”
“I'm going to stay.”
“I'd rather you went, please.”