"I thought you would," said Majendie.
She had hoped that he would think she wouldn't.
They dined at seven o'clock in Thurston Square, and at half-past seven in Prior Street, so that she would be well out of the house before Gorst came into it. It was raining heavily. But Anne looked upon the rain as her ally. Walter would be ashamed to think he had driven her out in such weather.
He insisted on accompanying her to the Eliotts' door.
"Not a nice evening for turning out," said he as he opened his umbrella and held it over her.
"Not at all," said she significantly.
At ten o'clock he came to fetch her in a cab.
Now, the cab, the escort, and the sheltering umbrella somewhat diminished the grievance of her enforced withdrawal from her home. And Majendie's manner did still more to take the wind out of the proud sails of her tragic adventure. But Anne herself was a sufficiently pathetic figure as she appeared under his umbrella, descending from the Eliotts' doorstep, with delicate slippered feet, gathering her skirts high from the bounding rain, and carrying in her hands the boots she had not waited to put on.
Majendie uttered the little tender moan with which he was used to greet a pathetic spectacle.
"He sounds," said Anne to herself, "as if he were sorry."