"It's about Philip," she said timidly.
He started.
"Don't tell me about him, Claire," he said. "It can't do any good, and it's hard for you, I see. Whatever you are or were to Philip doesn't matter to me in the least. The Claire of this morning wasn't my mate. It is only Claire from now on that counts, and she is not in any way bound to Philip for whatever may have occurred in the past."
"Oh, I wish that were true!" she moaned.
"It is true," he asserted.
"But you don't understand. Let me go on, please."
"Surely," he answered. "Say as much or as little as you wish."
She told him then, falteringly, sometimes wondering at his calm, expressionless face as she talked. She was filled with dread, for he sat as still as death, without a word, without a change of expression to show her what he was thinking. She made many corrections to her explanation, and supplied bits of comment in an effort to discover herself how it all had happened. There was nothing of apology in her attitude, however, and she finally concluded with an account of that afternoon in her bedroom, and what she had said to Philip since that day.
"Now," she said at last, "you know all about it. You can do as you please, of course. If you choose to go on, we will have to find some solution together. Philip will not take it easily. Of that I am sure. He is more than likely to become desperate."
She waited. Lawrence did not move. His face was seriously thoughtful, and she was filled with a growing fear that made it harder and harder to wait for him to speak.