"Then ... I am driving you out of the country?"
Her look was impersonal and curious. He prided himself that he was managing his temper admirably—at least until he discovered that he had, inexplicably, no temper to speak of; that he, in fact, suffered mostly from what seemed to be nothing more than annoyance at being hindered in making the necessary arrangements against his departure.
His shoulders moved negligently. "Not to rant about it," he replied: "I find I am not needed here."
"Oh, dear!" Her lips formed a fugitive, petulant moue: "And it's my fault?"
"There's no use mincing matters, is there? I am not heartbroken, and if I am bitterly disappointed I don't care to—in fact, I lack the ability—to dramatize it."
"You are taking it well, Hugh," said she, critical.
Expressionless, he waited an instant before inquiring pointedly: "Well...?"
Deliberately laying aside her light muff, her scarf and hand-bag, she rose: equality of poise was impossible if he would persist in standing. She moved a little nearer, examining his face closely, shook her head, smiled almost diffidently, and gave a helpless gesture.
"Hugh," she said in a voice of sincerity, "I'm awfully sorry—truly I am!"
He made no reply; waited.