To-day he found her in a state of agitated perplexity. She put a letter into his hands. He was to read it; he might skip the first page, it was all about calico. There—that was what she meant.
The letter was from Mrs. Wilcox imploring her to go back to Drayton "till this little cloud blows over."
"I don't want to go to Drayton, to those people. They talk. I know they talk, and I don't like them. Besides, I want to stay in London. Nobody knows me here except you."
"Do I know you?"
"Well, if you don't, you ought to—by now. I wonder if mother wants me. She might come here, though I'd rather she didn't. She talks too, you know; she doesn't mean to, but she can't help it. What I like about you is—you never talk."
"You won't let me."
"What ought I to do?" she asked helplessly. "Must I go?"
"No," said Louis emphatically. "Don't."
"Why not?"
He tossed the letter aside, and their eyes met.