She looked up.
"I don't know what you mean. I am never going to leave it. I shall stay here and work for the twins, as mother did."
Her voice faltered a little as she spoke that beloved name, but no tears came, and Forrester said patiently:
"You cannot stay here. It's impossible. You must let me see to things for you. I promise you that everything shall be done exactly as you wish." He waited, but she did not speak, and he said again with a touch of impatience in his voice:
"Faith, you are angry with me. What have I done?"
She temporized, with the feeling that as yet she could not bring herself to say all that she knew she meant to say sooner or later.
"You never wrote to me." The words were apathetic. She had not cared whether he wrote to her or not.
He shrugged his shoulders.
"I had no chance, and what sense was there in writing? I have got here almost as soon as a letter would have done." He walked a pace from her and came back. "I'm a bad hand at writing, anyway," he said, sombrely.
She was looking again into the street, and the weary outline of her face touched his heart.