"Evelyn—Ladybird—have you nothing to say to me?"
"N—no," she answered in a choked voice, without uncovering her face; "it wouldn't be any use."
"Why not? Am I so utterly devoid of understanding?"
"No—no. But you brave, strong sort of people can't ever know how hard little things are for—for people like me. It has been so—dull lately. You had—all those men, and—I was lonely. It was nice to have some one—wanting me—some one not miles above my head. But I knew you would be cross if I told you—and—and—" tears choked her utterance—"oh, it's no good talking. You'd never understand."
"I understand this much, my dear," he said. "You are done up with the strain of nursing, and badly in need of a change. But we shall soon get away on leave now; and I will see to it that you shall never feel dull or out of it again. Only one thing I insist upon—your intimacy with—that man is at an end. No more riding with him; no more going to his bungalow. From to-day you treat him and his sister as mere acquaintances."
She faced him now with terror-stricken eyes. For while he spoke, she had perceived the full extent of her dilemma.
"But, Theo—there isn't any need for that," she urged, with a thrill of fear at her own boldness. "They would think it so odd. What excuses could I possibly make?"
"That's your affair," Desmond answered unmoved. "You are a better hand at it than I am. My only concern is that you shall put an end to this equivocal state of things for good."
At that she hid her face again, with a sob of despair. "I can't do it—I can't. It's impossible!" she murmured vehemently more to herself than to him.