“My darling,” she said, and putting her arms round his neck she kissed his face on both sides, “my darling Alfred, are you glad to see me?” He submitted to her caress half reluctantly, then drew back a little. His manner was no warmer than it had been to Florence.
“Yes, I am glad to see you,” he said, and looked at her with his eyes wide open, as if to show that he perfectly understood the position.
“My darling, I have suffered terribly. Florence had no sympathy for us; she said it was an unsuitable marriage; that you had no fortune, and that I had none; as if my poverty was not hard enough to bear without being told of it. What did she say to you? Alfred, my dear one, she has not turned your love from me?” She put out her arms again as if to gather him to her, but he looked blindly past her.
“Sit down,” he said, and pushed her gently on to the chair beside the peacock-screen.
“She has not taken your love from me, tell me that,” Mrs. Baines said entreatingly. “A few hours ago you assured me of your devotion. She has not taken it from me?”
“No.”
“I am just the same to you?” she asked. He turned his eyes on her again.
“You are just the same,” he said, with a gulp, but there was no tenderness in his manner. He seemed to be speaking almost under compulsion.
“My darling, my darling,” she said softly, “bless you for those dear words. I will be truer to you, Alfred, than ever woman was to man before. But I cannot stay here; you must take me away. I have already packed my things, I cannot remain another night, not knowing to what treatment I may be subjected. I love Florence most sincerely; she and Walter and their children are very dear to me. But after her coldness to me last night when I came in full of your love and my own happiness, and she denied me her sympathy, I cannot stay. You must not ask me to do that, Alfred.” There was more interest in his manner now, though his gravity never relaxed.
“Where will you go?” he asked.