"On the contrary!" She was now white to the lips. "Whoever goes with her gives me up. They must choose--once for all."
"My dear friend, listen to reason."
And, drawing his chair close to her, he argued with her for half an hour. At the end of that time her gust of passion had more or less passed away; she was, to some extent, ashamed of herself, and, as he believed, not far from tears.
"When I am gone she will think of what I have been saying," he assured himself, and he rose to take his leave. Her look of exhaustion distressed him, and, for all her unreason, he felt himself astonishingly in sympathy with her. The age in him held out secret hands to the age in her--as against encroaching and rebellious youth.
Perhaps it was the consciousness of this mood in him which at last partly appeased her.
"Well, I'll try again. I'll try to hold my tongue," she granted him, sullenly. "But, understand, she, sha'n't go to that bazaar!"
"That's a great pity," was his naïve reply. "Nothing would put you in a better position than to give her leave."
"I shall do nothing of the kind," she vowed. "And now good-night, Wilfrid--good-night. You're a very good fellow, and if I can take your advice, I will."
Lady Henry sat alone in her brightly lighted drawing-room for some time. She could neither read nor write nor sew, owing to her blindness, and in the reaction from her passion of the afternoon she felt herself very old and weary.