“She’s cried herself sick,” Barbara told me. “You can say she must go, George, or you can say she may stop on; but it’s cruel to keep making her cry.”
“I want her to go,” I said, without enlarging the field of debate.
“It was a pity you asked her in the first place, if you were going to turn her out.”
“I fancy she asked herself.”
“I thought she was a passion of yours,” said Barbara in faint surprise. “You made me go to her wedding, when I hardly knew her.”
“At O’Rane’s request: because her father was being so difficult.”
There was a pause; then Barbara shrugged her shoulders.
“I think she’s rather in love with you,” she murmured.
“That’s very flattering,” I said, “but it doesn’t make things any easier. Her affections are quickly aroused. First it was Eric, then Gaymer; now . . .”
“You don’t believe it? George, you’re sometimes rather unobservant. Why d’you think she came here of all places?”