Rachel had made nothing of it; it was because it had meant so little to her that he had chafed so at the remembrance of it.
She was fond of him—he knew that—she was miserably unhappy.
He loved her—and he was miserably unhappy.
Damn this weather.
He looked at her, wondered what would happen did he cross over and suddenly kiss her, knew that he would see her struggle to be kind, to give him what he wanted, knew that that would hurt most damnably, and that he would be in a bad temper for the rest of the evening and would wonder why—
So, with a muttered word he went out and up to his dressing-room, had a bath, and then lay reading with serious brows The Winning Post until his man told him that it was time to dress.
Slowly and with the absorbed care that he always gave to these preparations he made himself ready for the Beaminster dinner.