“That note of your aunt's?”
“Yes”
He sat back and folded his arms. “I see,” he said, and there followed a long silence.
The girl began buttoning and unbuttoning her glove. She must go; she was frightened, elated, amused. She did not want to go, but go she must. Would he ever forgive her?
“Don't—don't hate me!” she said.
Amory awoke from his stunned meditation. “My dear young lady, of course not,” he began; “only, Tom will be terribly broken up. It's the only thing to do now, I suppose, but why did you do the other?”
She looked at him. As well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb, she thought. “I was unhappy and foolish.” She hesitated. “But you needn't be troubled about Tom. He—” Again she hesitated.
“Not troubled about old Tom!” expostulated Amory.
“Wait.” She put up her hand. “He made a mistake, too; he doesn't care so very much, and he has already flirted—”
Amory laid his hand on her chair. “Tom!”