"Then," she said, "it does seem a pity not to send for Jimmy."
I could see now that there was some deadly purpose in her persistence.
But this time I couldn't bear it, and I lost my temper.
I said, "Send for him. Send for him, if you can't live ten minutes without him."
I was sorry even at the time; I have been ashamed since. For, so far from resenting my abominable rudeness—as, under any conclusion, she had a perfect right to—she merely said, "I'm only thinking that if I've got to go so soon to-morrow it'll be horribly lonely for him over there."
"He doesn't expect to see you. We arranged all that."
She pondered it, still with that curious absence of resentment. It was as if, recognizing the danger of the situation, she submitted to any steps, however disagreeable, that were necessary for her safety. It was clear that she trusted me; less clear that she trusted Jevons.
One thing remained mysterious to her.
"What are you coming back here for?" she asked.
I let her have it straight: "To look after Jevons."
"What do you suppose he'd do?"