Angel stood still in the middle of the room, with her face as firmly miserable as she could make it.
"Won't you tell me?" Henry pleaded. "Won't you speak to me? Come, dear--what's the matter?"
"You know well enough, Henry, what's the matter!" came an unexpected flash of speech.
"Indeed, I don't. I know of no reason whatever. How should I?"
"Well, then, Mrs. Williamson's the matter!--'Myrtilla,' as you call her. Something told me it was like this all along, though I couldn't bear to doubt you, and so I put it away. I wonder how often she's been here when I have known nothing about it."
"This is the very first time she has ever set foot in these rooms," said Henry, growing cold in his turn. "I'll give you my word of honour, if you need it."
"I don't want to hear any more. I'm going. Good-bye."
"Going, Angel?" said Henry, standing between her and the door. "What can you mean? See now,--give your brains a chance! You're not thinking in the least. You've just let yourself go--for no reason at all. You'll be sorry to-morrow."
"Reason enough, I should think, when I find that you love another woman!"
"I love Myrtilla Williamson! It's a lie, Angel--and you ought to be ashamed to say it. It's unworthy of you."