The scene was again the breakfast-room. Each was reading the morning's correspondence. Thornton tossed a letter across the table.
“Carteret's women folk can't come,” he said. “Devilish sensible women—they don't see the fun of it. So it's settled. I go up as soon as this wretched grind is over.”
“Very well,” said Clytie calmly. “I hope you will have a good time.”
“Thanks,” he replied in his careless way. “It will be like old times again. And you will put in a good, quiet couple of months with your people.”
Clytie bit her lip. Her heart beat a little faster. She was going to set herself in opposition to him. She glanced at him before she spoke; he hardly seemed to expect an answer, but continued reading another letter. He looked kind and frank, she thought, a husband for any woman to be proud of. In his morning freshness, clean-shaven, groomed, trimmed, he seemed handsomer than ever. His close brown hair had not a touch of gray; scarcely a line showed on his forehead or beneath his eyes; and the dark rich colour was visible beneath the bronze on his cheek. He broke into a laugh, buoyant and careless, over his letter, and looked up at Clytie. Then, his glance meeting hers, his face grew more serious.
“What are you gazing at me for with those great blue eyes of yours, Clytie?”
She bent forward, rested her cheek on her hand.
“In regard to what you have just said—my going to Durdleham—I am not going for many reasons. I told you so, Thornton, the other day.”
“I am quite aware of it,” said Thornton. “But you are going.”
He looked her full in the face, and she returned his gaze calmly and unflinchingly.