“I never doubted your word, Kent,” said Clytie, with a touch of her old soft manner towards him. “Only it seemed strange not to see you. One gets into a certain groove, and a change from it jars. You see how easy it is to become a Philistine. You are much more a child of the light than I am, in that you have got out of the groove quite easily.”
“You have no right to say that,” said Kent, rising.
“Well, perhaps I have not,” said Clytie, bending intently over her palette. “Anyhow, the fact remains that we parted friends before Christmas, and now that I have come back you are changed. I am very sorry—sorrier than I can say. I have valued your friendship and the help it has given me—I am unchanged, I think so—and, to be franker than my sex generally is, I may say, I am hurt.”
Kent misunderstood. He could not help it. He thought she was grieved at his friendship having changed to love, which the tone in her voice told him could not be returned. All had happened just as he had anticipated. She spoke more in sorrow than in anger; that was the only difference.
“If you would prefer that I did not see you again—or so often,” he said, twisting the brim of his hat.
The words estranged them still further. They were pathetic in their ludicrous inappositeness.
“That you must please yourself about,” replied Clytie, with a quick flush. “I have said all that my pride will let me say in the matter. If you prefer to break off our intercourse, well—so be it!”
“You know that I don't wish to do that,” he said in a low voice. “Let me see you sometimes. Could I see you this evening, for instance?”
“No; I am sorry, I am going—I am dining out. Some other time. You know my hours.”
He stepped forward and shook hands with her to say good-bye, thus breaking through an established custom between them of non-handshaking. He reflected on this a moment afterward. It seemed an omen of the dissolution of their friendship.