But the words, unintentionally uttered, stung McTaggart to the quick.
"Unlike myself!" he said with a sneer.
Bethune moved toward the door. On the threshold he turned and passed a hand wearily over his brow.
"You're going to her?" He jerked his head with a warning gesture to the clock.
"Yes."
McTaggart never turned, but Bethune still hesitated.
He was fighting hard against himself—a bitter battle of wounded pride; the picture of Jill in his mind, her grey eyes wet with tears.
Suddenly he wheeled round.
"For God's sake, Peter," he cried—(the old familiar name slipped out, for habit is hard to break)—"if you care for her—tell her so!"
The door slammed behind his back. McTaggart sat as if turned to stone, elbows propped upon the table, staring out into space.