“Promise me not to—not to—”
He hesitated. The calm of her face seemed almost to confuse him.
“Well?” she said. “Go on.”
“Promise me not to justify anything people are saying, not to justify it with—with that fellow Ulford.”
“Good-bye,” she answered, holding out her hand.
He recognised that the time for his advice had gone by, if it had ever been.
“What a way—what a way for us to—” he almost stammered.
He recovered his self-possession with an effort and took her hand.
“At least,” he said in a low, quiet voice, “believe it is less jealousy that speaks within me than love—love for you, for the woman you are trampling in the dust.”
He looked into her eyes and went out. She did not see him again before he left England. And she was glad. She did not want to see him. Perhaps it was the first time in her life that the affection of a man whom she really liked was distasteful to her. It made her uneasy, doubtful of herself just then, to be loved as Robin loved her.