“The bill was only thirteen pounds,” she next remarked, holding out the notes he had lent her. “I had plenty of money of my own, so I return these.”
The notes, too, he put into his pocket without comment. Then she said reproachfully:—
“Don’t you want to know my name?”
He started. “Your name? That does not matter, does it?”
“But you surely must know my name to write to me by?”
“I am not going to write to you.”
“Why not?” There was a sharp note of prescient anguish in her voice.
“I am not good at writing letters.”
“Ah, no, it isn’t that,” she answered sadly. “You mean of course that you want to go quite out of my life.”
“What can I do?”