“For Alys’s sake,” Mary had decided, when for the first time she found herself shaking hands with the man she had prayed she might “never see again,” “for Alys’s sake it is necessary to make no fuss, and perhaps for my own, too, it is on the whole more dignified to behave in an ordinary way.”
But to-night, dignity or no dignity, her indignation was again too fully aroused to allow anything to interfere with its expression, and she was proceeding in queenly fashion to the door, when, to her amazement, Mr Cheviott stepped forward and stood in her way.
“Miss Western,” he said, quietly, “won’t you say goodnight? Won’t you shake hands with me as usual?”
Mary hesitated. She did not want to make herself ridiculous—for Lilias’s sake even, she shrank from the slightest appearance of petulance or small resentment. She hesitated; then looking up bravely, said, honestly:
“I would rather not, but—” A pair of dark eyes were gazing down upon her—gazing as if they would read her very soul, so earnest, so true in their expression that Mary could not but own to herself that it was difficult to realise that they belonged to an unprincipled and dishonourable man.
“But?” he said, gravely.
“I was only going to say, if you think so much of shaking hands, I don’t mind,” said Mary, with a curious mixture of deprecation and defiance in her tone. “I don’t want to be uncourteous or exaggerated—besides, what is there in shaking hands? We do so half a dozen times a day with people we do not care the least for.”
“Yes,” said Mr Cheviott, gravely still, “we do. But people one doesn’t care the least for are different from people one positively dislikes, or worse still, distrusts.”
“Can’t you leave all that?” said Mary, sadly. “I cannot help what—what happened, and, indeed”—her voice trembling a little—“towards the Mr Cheviott I have known here I should be most wrong to have any but friendly feelings.”
She held out her hand. Mr Cheviott took it in his, holding it for one little moment longer than was really necessary.