"You are going back into everything, I suppose."
"Yes."
"To forget her, I suppose."
He said pleasantly:
"I do not wish to forget her. One prefers to think often of such a woman as Mrs. Leeds. There are not many like her. It is something of a privilege to have cared for her, and the memory is not—painful."
Mrs. Sprowl glared at him; and, as she thought of Langly, of Strelsa, of the collapse of her own schemes, the baffled rage began to smoulder in her tiny green eyes till they dwindled and dwindled to a pair of phosphorescent sparks imbedded in fat.
"I did my best," she said hoarsely. "I'm not defeated if you're not. Say the word and I'll start something—" And suddenly she remembered Langly's threat involving the memory of a dead man whose only son now stood before her.
She knew that her words were vain, her boast empty; she knew there was nothing more for her to do—nothing even that Sir Charles might do toward winning Strelsa without also doing the only thing in the world which could really terrify herself. Even at the mere thought of it she trembled again, and fear forced her to speech born of fear:
"Perhaps it is best for you to go," she faltered. "Absence is a last resort.... It may be well to try it——"
He bent over and took her hand: