There came a long pause. They had reached the high road to Chingford before it was broken.
Catherine suddenly took the crumpled letter from her pocket, and began tearing it up into minute fragments.
“See,” she cried passionately, “you can tell him this is what I did with his letter I You can tell him there’s better fellows in the world than he is, and Cathie Weston isn’t going to break her heart over him! ... Tell him I’m not a soppy little schoolgirl.”
She flung the pieces on the ground, and began stamping on them.
“You’re being silly,” said Helen, quietly.
“And tell him,” went on Catherine, “that if he thinks he’s under an obligation to me, he’s made a mistake. I’m grateful to him—for letting me see what he really is.”
Her words rattled like the passage of a lorry over granite setts.
“Come on,” said Helen, “we’ll get to Chingford, and take the train back.”
“You’ll tell him?”
“I don’t promise. I think you’d better forget all about him ... after all, you can’t do anything....”