But he did not stir.
After a few moments she said very gently: "Are you displeased with me for anything I have said or done? I can't imagine—"
"You can't expect me to feel very much flattered by the knowledge that you are constantly seen with other men where you and I were once so well known."
"Clive! Is there anything wrong in my going?"
"Wrong? No:—if your own sense of—of—" but the right word—if there were such—eluded him.
"I know how you feel," she said in a low voice. "I wrote you that it seemed strange, almost sad, to be with other men where you and I had been together so often and so—so happily.
"Somehow it seemed to be an invasion of our privacy, of our intimacy—for me to dine with other men at the same tables, be served by the same waiters, hear the same music. But I didn't know how to avoid it when I was taken there by other men. Could you tell me what I should have done?"
He made no reply; his boyish face grew almost sulky, now.
Presently he rose as though to get his coat: she rose also, unhappy, confused.