“My dear one, you said we should be dishonoured if we put anything in the place of love . . .”
I waited to hear that terrible verdict reversed. Barbara looked at me in amazement and then gave a single tearless sob. She regained her composure immediately and walked again to the door.
“You have a good memory, George,” she threw back. “Have you saved that up for two years? Do you want me to say that I’ve suddenly found you irresistible? The Oakleighs are very true to their own type.”
5
As the door closed, I saw my last chance being shut from me. The house was in darkness when I went into the hall; there was no answer when I called to Barbara, though I could see a light in her room. I came downstairs again to brood of men, women and Oakleighs.
I tried next day to explain, but Barbara refused with cold courtesy to understand what I was trying to explain. I had been patient, too patient; in her turn she was trying to meet me. She was ready to give anything I asked, if she had it to give; and the false sweetness of her complaisance was a deadlier bar than any refusal.
“I feel I was ungracious,” I said.
“Ungracious? You?,” she mocked. “I must go now, or I shall be late for Mr. Wace.”
“Shall I see you after the opening of parliament?”
“But of course! For another eternity! Good-bye.”