She sighed gently and held out her hand. Loneliness and the sense of failure seemed to have taken away all her vitality: her hand was cold and limp, and her head drooped as though she lacked the strength to keep it erect.
“Let me come to tea some day,” Eric suggested.
“Oh, you’re too busy. It wouldn’t be fair.”
“I’m not too busy for that.”
“Aren’t you?” She made a pitiful attempt to collect the fragments of her pride; but the drooping head and unsteady lips belied the valiance of her voice, and haughtiness passed quickly into petulance. “You were too busy to dine with us, when I invited you; you were too busy to see me when I called on you, too busy even to answer my letter.”
Eric stared at her in amazement:
“Miss Maitland, I simply don’t understand! I couldn’t dine with you, because I never dine out when I’ve a play on hand. But the call and the letter—”
“Your maid said you couldn’t see me, as I hadn’t an appointment.”
“I must apologize for her. She probably thought you’d come to ask for an engagement.”
“I had. And that’s what I wrote about. You said in New York that I might come to you for help; I couldn’t go to your club, because father’s a member. Didn’t you get my letter?”