Delia interrupted.
"As soon as Weston is out of danger, I'll go—of course I'll go!—about a month from now, perhaps less. You will have the flat, Gertrude, all the same, and as much money as I can scrape together—after the operation's paid for. I don't matter a tenth part as much as you, you know I don't; I haven't been at all a success at these meetings lately!"
There was a certain young bitterness in the tone.
"Well, of course you know what people will say."
"That I'm shirking—giving in? Well, you can contradict it."
Delia turned from the window beside which she was standing to look at Gertrude. A pale December sunshine shone on the girl's half-seen face, and on the lines of her black dress. A threatening sense of change, mingled with a masterful desire to break down the resistance offered, awoke in Gertrude. But she restrained the dictatorial instinct. Instead, she sat down beside the desk again, and covered her face with her hand.
"If I couldn't contradict it—if I couldn't be sure of you—I might as well kill myself," she said with sudden and volcanic passion, though in a voice scarcely raised above its ordinary note.
Delia came to her impulsively, knelt down and put her arms round her.
"You know you can be sure of me!" she said, reproachfully.
Gertrude held her away from her. Her eyes examined the lovely face so close to her.