Duplessis bowed. “I see. Thank you very much. Than I think, if you’ll allow me—” He bowed again and went towards the door. The scene was to be over. Jinny put her hand upon the latch. “Where are you going?” she said, very short of breath. There was a thrill yet to be got out of this.
What was sport to her mortified him to death. “Really, I don’t know that I need trouble you any more,” he said. “You will give my kind regards to your sister, I hope.” But Jinny kept the door-handle in possession.
“Mr. Duplessis,” she said, “I ought to tell you that my sister would rather be excused from seeing you. At least, she says so. She said so to me. You best know why that may be.”
He ill concealed his mortification. “We won’t talk of your sister’s affairs, I think. I am happy to have made your acquaintance——”
Jinny tossed her head up. “My acquaintance, as you call it, is for them that want it. My sister’s is her own business. I tell you fairly, Mr. Duplessis, that she may be very unhappy.”
He flashed her a savage look. “Good Heavens, I believe that. Why, the thing’s monstrous! You might as well marry her to a nunnery. The fellow’s frozen—stark cold.” Jinny steadfastly regarded him.
“You know very well that you never meant to marry her,” she said. He grew cold instantly.
“Once for all, I must tell you that I decline to discuss your sister’s affairs with any one but herself. And since you tell me that I am not to see her, I will ask you to let me bid you good-afternoon. I am very sorry to have given you so much trouble.”
It was over; there was but one treatment for such a cavalier in Jinny’s code of manners. She opened the door wide. “Good-afternoon,” she said. He bowed and went out with no more ceremony.
He felt spotted, and was furious that such a squalid drama should have engaged him. A fluffed shop-girl—and Tristram Duplessis! Filthy, filthy business! But he went directly to Hill-street—whither a telegram had preceded him, terse and significant according to Jinny’s sense of the theatre. “Look out,” it said.