"When have I ever shown you that I wished to desert you—or—the
League?"
"Perhaps I read you better than you do yourself," said Gertrude, slightly reddening too. "Of course you have been goodness—generosity—itself. But—this cause wants more than gifts—more than money-it wants a woman's self!"
"Well?" Delia waited.
Gertrude moved impatiently.
"Why should we play the hypocrite with each other!" she said at last. "You won't deny that what Mr. Winnington thinks—what Mr. Winnington feels—is infinitely more important to you now than what anybody else in the world thinks or feels?"
"Which I shewed by coming up here against his express wishes?—and joining in the raid, after he had said all that a man could say against it, both to you and to me?"
"Oh, I admit you did your best—you did your best," said Gertrude sombrely. "But I know you, Delia!—I know you! Your heart's not in it—any more."
Delia rose, and began slowly to pace the room. There was a wonderful virginal dignity—a suppressed passion—in her attitude, as though she wrestled with inward wound. But she said nothing, except to ask—as she paused in front of Gertrude—
"Where are you going—and who is going with you?"
"I shall go to the sea, somewhere—perhaps to the Isle of Wight. I daresay Marion Andrews will come with me. She wants to escape her mother for a time."