“Yes. He didn’t want you to come to our table. But he never spoke of you afterwards. He didn’t say a word, or show the slightest sign. But in this letter I feel that he suspects—that he is afraid something may happen through you, and that—”
“Perhaps he knows you came to see me last night.”
“How could he?”
“It wouldn’t be difficult for a man of that type.”
“I walked home alone, and nobody—”
“That doesn’t prove anything. He is subtle, as you say.”
“I am sure from this letter that he guesses something has happened, that I may have been set against him, and that he doesn’t mean to give me up, whatever happens. I feel that in his letter. And I want someone to drive him away from me. Oh, I wish I had never seen him! I wish I had never seen him!”
Again Lady Sellingworth heard the cry of youth, and this time it was piteous, almost despairing. She did not answer it in words. Indeed, instead of showing any pity, any strong instinct of protection, she turned away from Beryl.
The girl wondered why she did this, and for a moment thought that perhaps she was angry. The situation was difficult, horribly difficult. Beryl had delicacy enough to understand that. Perhaps she ought not to have come to Adela again. Perhaps she was asking too much, more than any woman could bring herself to do, or to try to do. But she had no one else to go to, and she was really afraid, miserably afraid.
Lady Sellingworth stood quite still by the fire with her back to Beryl, and as the silence continued at last Beryl made up her mind that there was nothing to be hoped for from her and got up slowly.