When Miss Hatherly began to read he muttered something about feeling faint and crept unostentatiously out of the window. Marion followed him.
“Well,” she said sternly, “you’ve made a nice mess of everything, haven’t you? What on earth have you been doing?”
“I can’t think what you thought of those socks,” said Robert hoarsely, “all darned in different coloured wool—I never wear them. I don’t know why they were in the bag.”
“I didn’t think anything at all about them,” she snapped.
They were walking down the road towards Robert’s house.
“And the shirt,” he went on in a hollow voice, “with that big hole in it. I don’t know what you’ll think of my things. I just happened to have torn the shirt. I really never wear things like that.”
“Oh, do shut up about your things. I don’t care what you wear. But I’m sick with you for writing soppy poetry about me for those asses to read,” she said fiercely. “And why did you give her your bag, you loony?”
“I didn’t, Marion,” said Robert miserably. “Honestly I didn’t. It’s a mystery to me how she got it. I’ve been hunting for it high and low all to-day. It’s simply a mystery!”
“Oh, do stop saying that. What are you going to do about it? That’s the point.”
“I’m going to commit suicide,” said Robert gloomily. “I feel there’s nothing left to live for now you’re turning against me.”