She held out her hand. He grasped it eagerly; but there was a stiff wrist and elbow at the back of it which dictated the distance from him to her.
"Yate—Mr Tyndall—I want you to go away!"
"What!—now?—this moment?"
"Yes, and for ever!"
She spoke deliberately, without a quaver of sorrow, and every word on his heart spat like hailstones coming down a chimney on live coal.
His huge frame trembled and swayed an instant. Then he laughed. It was a jarring, joyless convulsion.
"You don't mean it—you are doing it to try me—say you don't, Carol, my darling."
"But I do," she explained. "Listen. I have behaved infamously to you. I will take all the blame. You were so good, so noble, so loving. You came just when I was dying of heartbreak—people do die of it, no matter what the philosophers say. You saved me, you lifted me to life and womanly pride, you prevented me from writing cringing letters to——in short you saved me from throwing myself at Mr Rosser's head. Nay, don't speak. I told you I had loved him."
"You love him still!" he cried.
"No. I showed you my letter this evening to prove it. But that is no reason for loving you."