“Are you afraid to let me see her, afraid that she may make up her mind for herself?”
“She’d done that before you got your marching orders at Croxton.”
Eric turned his back and took a step towards the door, but Gaymer only sank deeper into his chair, with one leg thrown over the other and his finger-tips pressed together.
“You’d better look at facts, Lane. There was a time within the last four months when she belonged to me, soul and body; she may belong to me soul and body again. May... If you try to keep me away—I say ‘try’, because you won’t succeed—, it’s because you’re afraid. You think you’re going to marry her; I’ll assume you do; I’ll assume she’s in love with you, if you’ll admit that she must have been tolerably in love with me not so long ago. As between the two of us, if she’s going to find that she prefers me, would you sooner she found it out before you try to marry her or after you’re happily married?”
“She’s decided already.”
“She’s decided on false evidence. When I tell her that it was only to-night—”
“You won’t have an opportunity of telling her.”
“You haven’t much confidence in yourself.”
“I can’t see why we should either of us submit to being bothered by you any more. If you’ve nothing more to say, I’ll get back to her. I warn you very strongly—don’t make any attempt to see her.”
Gaymer looked at him in silence for a moment and then drew himself slowly out of his chair and walked to the door. Eric picked up his hat and left the flat with a short, murmured “good-night.” As he hurried across St. James’ Park he tried to sort his ideas into order and to escape the oppressive sense of uneasiness which Gaymer’s vague menaces had brought to life again. The fellow could do nothing—one said that again and again, to get the problem in perspective and perhaps to rally one’s courage—; he could not break down doors, Ivy would never consent to speak to him, to read his letters... Yet, if he came and haunted them when they were married....