“Say something,” implored Pensée.
“He is on his way to Rome. He asks me not to write to him. Castrillon is dying. They fought a duel.”
“But of course you will write—now. You must write.”
“Hasn't my love done harm enough already? I will never see him again. I shall never write to him again.”
“You can't mean that. You can't realise what you are saying. People will like him all the better for fighting Castrillon.”
“Oh, it isn't the duel, Pensée. He sees his way clearly. He has always tried not to see it. I, too, have tried not to see it. But all that is at an end now.”
“And he will renounce his career.”
“Everything! Everything!”
Pensée threw up her hands, and left the room. Father Foster was standing under a gas-jet at the end of the corridor reading his office. He looked at Lady Fitz Rewes.