'Did I?' he said bitterly. 'Ah well, now comes the turn of the other man!'
Penelope started back, wounded and ashamed. She put her hand over her eyes. For a moment they both felt an intangible, but none the less reproachful, presence between them.
'I beg your pardon,' he said hurriedly. 'I should not have said that. Forgive me.'
'It was my fault,' she answered coldly. 'I brought it on myself—I know you had great provocation.'
There was a painful moment of silence. 'I think I must leave you now,' she said at length, 'I will write to you to-morrow. I do not think our meeting again would be of any use. We should both say'—her voice quivered—'and perhaps do, things we should regret later.' She held out her hand, her head still averted, wishing her anger, her disappointment, with Winfrith to endure.
But suddenly he drew her again, this time resisting, into his arms. 'We can't part like this,' he whispered urgently. 'Forgive the brutish thing I said! I promise I will never so offend again—I swear I will respect him—the man you love, I mean.' To keep her another moment in his arms he abased himself yet further. 'You must not be afraid that I shall quarrel with your choice. Surely we can remain friends—he shall have no reason to be jealous of me.'
But punishment came swift and sure. Again he felt her shrink from him, again he felt another presence between them, and the jealous devil, so lately laid, once more took possession of his soul.
He thrust her away. 'I had better go now,' he said hoarsely. 'It's no use. You were right: we had better not meet again.'
And as Penelope, swept with infinite distress, compelled, mastered, by impulses the source of which was wholly hidden from herself, came once more near to him, again took his hand in hers, looked up mutely into his face, he said roughly, 'No, no! keep your kisses for the other man; I will not rob him any more!' and, fumbling for a moment with the key in the lock, was gone.