‘You are cross, Gilbert; and it’s very late. I’m going to bed, and I advise you to do the same. The lecture to-morrow, when you’ve had time to think things over. Good-night, old fellow.’
He took a candle, nodded to Gilbert, and left the room. His friend slowly followed him, looking altogether more limp and less self-assured than he had done six hours earlier.
CHAPTER XXVII
RECRIMINATION
Roger Camm, leading Ada away, went out into the passage, and stood at the door of the cloak-room, while she put on her shawl and hat, and then came out to him. Her face was still flushed, and more sullen than downcast. She did not look at him, as she said, ‘I am ready.’
He gave her his arm, and they went out, to walk the few hundred yards between the schoolroom and Ada’s home. The cold night air blew upon their heated faces, for Roger, though he looked so pale, was in a fever, and Ada’s heart was hot with anger and disappointment. Nothing was said till they arrived at the side door which led to the house part of Mr. Dixon’s premises. Then Ada observed—
‘Well, I suppose after all this, you won’t want to come in.’
‘Oh, Ada!’ exclaimed the young man in a voice of reproach, ‘that is cruel. I want to speak to you, of course. I would not go away and leave you alone—the idea!’
‘Oh, come in, pray! Now that you have spoiled my whole pleasure, and made me a laughing-stock; taking me away, like a baby in disgrace,’ said Ada, in a voice that trembled violently.
They went into the house. The astonished servant came out of the kitchen, on hearing the unexpected noise, but retired when she saw who the intruders were. Mr. and Mrs. Dixon were both at the concert. Ada led the way upstairs, to the family sitting-room, and turned up the gas, and gave Roger the prosaic order to poke the fire.
He did so, and then turned to her. For a little time he stood with his back against the mantelpiece, and his hands clasped behind him. She drew out her handkerchief and held it before her eyes, to conceal the tears which rage and temper prevented from flowing; while she tapped the floor with her foot. It was a cruelly painful ordeal to him, and he was revolving in his mind how to speak to her. How, how was he to reproach her? For reproach her he must. He had gone so suddenly into the ante-room at the concert; for once, he had seen Ada and her actions clearly, and without any flattering veil over them—had seen her openly coquetting with another man, and that a man whose character and station made it impossible for such coquetting to be innocent. It was her innocence and ignorance, he told himself, with yearning love in his heart, which had permitted her to be so misled. All that was necessary was for him to tell her what the real character was, that Otho Askam bore, and she would see what a mistake she had made. But how to begin—what words were soft enough, gentle enough? While he was thus inwardly debating, Ada suddenly looked up.