“I have but my farewells to make, Hortensia,” said he. “I am leaving Stretton House, to-day, at last.”
“I am glad,” said she, in a formal, level voice, “that things should have fallen out so as to leave you free to go your ways.”
“You are glad,” he answered, frowning slightly, and leaning farther towards her. “Ay, and why are you glad? Why? You are glad for Mr. Caryll's sake. Do you deny it?”
She looked up at him quite calm and fearlessly. “I am glad for your own sake, too.”
His dark brooding eyes looked deep into hers, which did not falter under his insistent gaze. “Am I to believe you?” he inquired.
“Why not? I do not wish your death.”
“Not my death—but my absence?” he sneered. “You wish for that, do you not? You would prefer me gone? My room is better than my company just now? 'Tis what you think, eh?”
“I have not thought of it at all,” she answered him with a pitiless frankness.
He laughed, soft and wickedly. “Is it so very hopeless, then? You have not thought of it at all by which you mean that you have not thought of me at all.”
“Is't not best so? You have given me no cause to think of you to your advantage. I am therefore kind to exclude you from my thoughts.”