They had themselves well in hand now. Each had given the other a false impression at the start, and when two people are living at cross-purposes it is easier to move mountains than to remove that most intangible of all barriers, a false impression.
"And are you—up for the season?" Quita added, after a pause, with a natural touch of hesitancy.
"No. Two months' leave. I am free, therefore, to go elsewhere, if my presence here is in the least degree . . . annoying to you."
"Oh, but that would be a pity. You must have had a special reason for choosing Dalhousie."
"Some friends of mine were coming up, and asked me to come too. But they will quite understand if I say I should prefer to go shooting beyond Chumba."
"Don't say it, though, please. I would really rather you did not put yourself out in the smallest degree on my account. Besides," she added, achieving a rather uncertain smile, "we need not meet often, and no one—except Michael—will have any notion of . . . the truth."
"Of course not," he agreed, with glacial dignity. "I was forgetting that you had—discarded my name."
Again the blood flew to her cheeks.
"It seemed the simplest way to avoid possible complications, or unnecessary lies."
"And you flung away—my ring also?"