Sir Seymour stretched out a hand to put it on hers, but she drew away.
“No, no—don’t! I’m not—you can’t do anything, Seymour. It’s no use!”
She got up from the sofa, and walked away down the long drawing-room, trying to struggle with herself, to get back self-control. It was like madness this abrupt access of passion and violent despair, and she did not know how to deal with it, did not feel capable of dealing with it. She looked out of the window into Berkeley Square, after pulling back curtain and blind. Always Berkeley Square! Berkeley Square till absolute old age, and then death came! And she seemed to see her own funeral leaving the door. Good-bye to Berkeley Square! She let the blind drop, the curtain fall into its place.
Sir Seymour had got up and was standing by the fire. She saw him in the distance, that faithful old man, and she wished she could love him. She clenched her hands, trying to will herself to love him and to want to take him into her intimate life. But she could not bring herself to go back to him just then, and she did not know what she was going to do. Perhaps she would have left the room had not an interruption occurred. She heard the door open and saw Murgatroyd and the footman bringing in tea.
“You can turn up another light, Murgatroyd,” she said, instantly recovering herself sufficiently to speak in a natural voice.
And she walked back down the room to Sir Seymour, carrying with her a little silver vase full of very large white carnations.
“These are the flowers I was speaking about,” she said to him. “Have you ever seen any so large before? They look almost unnatural, don’t they?”
When the servants were gone she said:
“You must think me half crazy, Seymour.”
“No; but I don’t understand what has happened.”