“You must; I haven’t the right to stay.”
Steve stood up, crumpling the letter in his hand. “You mean because of what I said––that time?”
“Partly; partly because I find myself disapproving of your transactions.”
“They are a safe gamble,” he began, vehemently.
“Are they? I doubt it. Don’t ask me to stay. I want to remain poised and content. If I cannot be radiantly happy I can be content, the sort of old-lavender-and-star-dust peace that used to be mine.”
“Have I ever said things, made you feel or do–––”
“Oh, no.” As she looked at him the gray eyes turned wistful purple. “But it is what we may say or do, Mister Penny Wise.”
Steve looked at the crumpled letter. “So you are going over to staid graybeards who deal in cotton and woollens, and play commercial nun to the end––is that it?”
“Yes.”
“And you do care?” he persisted, brutally.