"He didn't mention the place, just said he had to go away and might be gone some time. He'll write, I reckon. He was awful disappointed at not seeing you. He asked me—" Mrs. Mundy, on her knees, unbuttoned my shoes and drew them off. "Your feet are near 'bout frozen, and no wonder. Your stockings are wet clean through, and I'm letting you sit here in them when I promised him I'd see you didn't kill yourself doing these very things. You just put your feet on the fender while I get some dry clothes. He says to me, says he: 'Mrs. Mundy, the one human being she gives no thought to is herself, and will you please take care of her? She don't understand'"—
"Oh, I do understand!" My voice was wearily protesting. "The one thing men don't want women to do is to understand. They want us to be sweet and pretty—and not understand. Selwyn talks as if I were a child. I am perfectly able to take care of myself."
"Maybe you are, but you don't do it—least-ways, not always. I promised him I wouldn't let you wear yourself out, and I promised him—"
"What?"
"That I wouldn't let you go too far. He says you've lost your patience with people, specially women, who think it's not their business to bother with things that—that aren't nice, and you're apt to go to the other extreme and forget how people talk."
"About some things they don't talk enough. Did—did he leave any message for me?"
Again Mrs. Mundy shook her head. "I think he wanted to talk to you about something he couldn't send messages about."
CHAPTER XII
Selwyn has been gone two weeks. I have heard nothing from him. I do not even know where he is.
Yesterday, over the telephone, Kitty reproached me indignantly for not coming oftener to see her. Each week I try to take lunch or dinner with her, but there have been weeks when I could not see her, when I could not get away. Scarborough Square and the Avenue are not mixable, and just now Scarborough Square is taking all my time.