"Then what has driven you to this sudden resolve? How could you think of doing such a cruel thing?"
"I mean to do it, mother."
Lady Canning looked at her son with very displeased eyes. "Thurston, you are developing an exceedingly bad temper. You—you have never before acted in such an inconsistent, inconsiderate manner. And with such a sweet wife. You don't deserve her."
"Mother, don't scold him," said Indiana, pleadingly. Thurston cast on her an indescribable look.
Jennings appeared then, and announced that the carriage was waiting to take Lady Canning for her morning drive. She sat in displeased silence, until her maid brought her bonnet and cloak. Before she left the room, she turned severely to Thurston. "I do do not wish to see you again until you tell me you have abandoned this fool-hardy, heartless idea, for good and all." She took Indiana in her arms. "My darling, forgive him, for my sake."
"I will, dear Lady Canning," said Indiana, angelically. "I—it's very weak, I know, but I couldn't be angry with him—no matter what he did." Thurston stared at her, aghast at such hypocrisy. Indiana led Lady Canning out into the hall. "Don't worry," she whispered, as Jennings held the door open for her to pass to the carriage. "It will be all right, I'll manage him." When she returned to the library, Thurston was staring into the fire. She approached quietly, and he raised his eyes, to see her standing meekly before him, her hands clasped in a childish fashion.
"You have played your part well," he said, bitterly.
Indiana raised her eyes supplicatingly, then dropped them again. "I wasn't acting," she said, innocently.
"It's well that you can be so light-hearted, when I am suffering tortures," he continued, with an involuntary burst of grief and bitterness.
"No, no, I was acting—but I felt the part. I do love everybody, and I want to be good again and make up."