"Of course not. What rubbish! Chris doesn't care for women—I know for a fact that he's never cared for a woman in his life."
She nodded; his words were truer than he thought, she told herself, seeing that Chris did not even care for her.
"We're going back to London on Saturday," she said, abruptly changing the subject.
"Really? That sounds as if you were rather glad."
"So I am—very glad. I hate this place and everybody in it!" Her voice, which had risen passionately, broke off, and she turned her eyes to his face. "No, that is not true," she said impulsively. "I don't hate you—the only reason I am sorry to be going is because it will mean leaving you."
She spoke with unaffected sincerity, and without realizing what her words might imply, but Feathers' big hands were suddenly clenched into fists, and there was a curiously strained look about his eyes as he stared down at the asphalt path.
"You are very kind," he said, formally.
"No, it is you who have been kind," she answered. "I don't know what I should have done without you—" She spread her hands and laughed. "Yes, I do know; I should have been drowned."
"I wish you would try and forget all about that."
"I do try, but I can't! Sometimes I dream about it, and I wake up 88 crying and struggling, just as if it had all happened again. . . ." She shivered sensitively, drawing a long breath.