"One must go one's own way, I suppose," said the young man.
"And if I expected you to show some slight consideration for me, in taking the way you have chosen—I was mistaken!"
He stirred the fire, and replaced the poker, but did not look at her or speak.
"You know what I mean?" she demanded.
"Perfectly."
"Reynold, you might have written! Your uncle's offer deserved a word. I do not say you might have accepted it, but you might have refused it courteously. Was that so much to ask? You have insulted him wantonly, and he will never pardon it. After all, he is your father's brother, and an old man. Reynold, you should have written!"
He did not raise his eyes from the burning coals.
"Well," he said, "I did propose to write before I went away."
She winced at the thrust.
"I was wrong!" she owned, with bitter passion in her voice. "It would have been better."