After breakfast she followed Tatham into the library. He stood silent a while by the window, looking out, his hands in his pockets; she beside him, leaning her head against his arm.
"It's all over," he said at last; "we decided it last night."
"What's over, dear old boy?"
"I broke our compact—I couldn't help it—and we saw it couldn't go on."
"You—asked her again?"
He nodded. "It's no good. And now it only worries her that I should hang about. We can't—even be friends. It's all my fault."
"You poor darling!" cried his mother indignantly. "She has played with you abominably."
He flushed with anger.
"You mustn't say that—you mustn't think it, mother! All these weeks have been—to the good. They haven't been the real thing. But I shall always have them—to remember. Now it's done with."
Silence fell upon them again, while their minds went back over the history of the preceding six months. Victoria felt very bitter. And so, apparently, in his own way, did he. For he presently said, with a vehemence which startled her: