“I meant to have come to see you before,” he stammered.
“Why didn't you? I rather expected you,” she replied calmly.
She finished squeezing her tube, and taking up her palette-knife, went on with her occupation. Kent, instinctively conscious that it is a disadvantage to stand, when morally wrong, before a sitting person who is in the right, drew Winifred's painting-stool away from the easel and sat down.
“You might have come in, if only for five minutes,” said Clytie, as he made no reply. The hand holding the palette-knife trembled a little.
“I wanted to,” replied Kent, finding words with difficulty. “But I couldn't. I am very, very sorry if I have been rude. I am always doing things of this sort.”
“It is not very pleasant for your friends; and I suppose we have been friends.”
“Yes, we have been friends,” he replied, “and I hope we shall continue so—if you will forgive me.”
His voice sounded strange in his own ears. In Clytie's it sounded cold and formal. She was puzzled.
“Oh, of course I forgive you! You have made your apology.”
“Believe me—things have happened. I could not come before, indeed I could not.”