The silence seemed long. At last he broke it. For he had seen an expression of despair come into her face.
“My dear, what is it? You must tell me!”
But suddenly the look of despair gave place to a mocking look which he knew very well.
“It’s only boredom, Seymour. I have had too much of Berkeley Square. I think I shall go away for a little.”
“To Cap Martin?”
“Perhaps. Where does one go when one wants to run away from oneself?”
And then she changed the conversation and talked, as she generally talked to Sir Seymour, of the life they both knew, of the doings at Court, of politics, people, the state of the country, what was likely to come to old England.
She had decided against Seymour. But she had not decided for Craven. After a moment of despair, of feeling herself lost, she had suddenly said to herself, or a voice had said in her, a voice coming from she knew not where:
“I will remain free, but henceforth I will be my own mistress in freedom, not the slave of myself.”
And then mentally she had dismissed both Seymour and Craven out of her life, the one as a possible husband, the other as a friend.