She rose, suffering him to aid her with her cloak, and then sat down and looked into the fire in her turn.
“It has been so long—I—I—hoped you would come.”
“Whom were you with in the Luxembourg Gardens?” he suddenly broke out.
She did not misunderstand or evade the question, and Gethryn, watching her face, thought perhaps she had expected it. But she resented his tone.
“I was with a friend,” she said, simply.
He came and sat down opposite her.
“It is not my business,” he said, sulkily; “excuse me.”
She looked at him for some moments in silence.
“It was Mr Pick,” she said at length.
Gethryn could not repress a gesture of disgust.