“Yes,” she answered. “I always want to do—what I can.”
As she spoke a sudden realization of the effort she was making struck upon him, and with it his scorn of Chilcote rose in renewed force.
“My intention—” he began, turning to her. Then the futility of any declaration silenced him. “I shall think over what you say,” he added, after a minute's wait. “I suppose I can't say more than that.”
Their eyes met and she smiled a little.
“I don't believe I expected as much,” she said. “I think I'll go now. You have been wonderfully patient.” Again she smiled slightly, at the same time extending her hand. The gesture was quite friendly, but in Loder's eyes it held relief as well as friendliness; and when their hands met he noticed that her fingers barely brushed his.
He picked up her cloak and carried it across the room. As he held the door open, he laid it quietly across her arm.
“I'll think over what you've said,” he repeated.
Again she glanced at him as if suspecting sarcasm then, partly reassured, she paused. “You will always despise your opportunities, and I suppose I shall always envy them,” she said. “That's the way with men and women. Good-night!” With another faint smile she passed out into the corridor.
Loder waited until he heard the outer door close, then he crossed the room thoughtfully and dropped into the chair that she had vacated. He sat for a time looking at the hand her fingers had touched; then he lifted his head with a characteristic movement.
“By Jove!” he said, aloud, “how cordially she detests tests him!”