“Don’t have anything to do with him,” Eric urged.
“I want to punish him.”
“You may only punish yourself—and me.”
A taxi had been ordered to wait for them at Paddington, and they escaped with relief from the crowded train and drove to the Cromwell Road. It was the first moment of privacy since the morning, and Ivy caught his hand and pressed it eagerly.
“Eric, I want to cry!,” she gasped, throwing her arms around him and hiding her face on his shoulder. “I’ve wanted to all day, you’ve been so wonderful! What can you see in me? I will try to repay you, though I never can. Eric, tell me it’s all true and that you’re not playing with me!”
“I’m no good at jokes of that kind.” She had slipped half to the floor, and he lifted her on to his knees; with a gentle pressure she drew his head to her bosom and laid a cold, tear-stained cheek against his. “Ivy, this is not my idea of taking a month to think calmly—”
“I don’t want a month!,” she cried, tightening the grip of her arms as though he were trying to escape.
“Dear child, you must steady yourself! We shall be at your father’s house in a minute, and you can’t go in like this. Dry your eyes, Ivy darling. You said you couldn’t see why I was doing this; don’t you see it’s because I want you? But, however much I want you, I can’t take you till I’m sure that I can make you happy. Wait a month—”
“I can’t wait a month!”
It was on his lips to say “a week,” but he stopped himself in time. There was always a temptation to do what a woman asked, when she was unhappy; but the one way to make a happy woman unhappy, an unhappy woman unhappier, was to yield to her. And in his overnight sanity, before she fired his blood, he had promised Gaisford to take time before risking a double tragedy.