“Yes,” said Irene, looking him full in the face. “We both thought.”
Hitherto they had been standing still by the roadside. Now she turned and moved onwards, Hugh accompanying her, slowly wheeling his machine—an incongruous element.
“You can see now why I want you to go away for a little?”
“Only too clearly,” he said, bitterly.
Irene knew that he did not see at all, and cast up at him an instinctive feminine glance, half-grateful, half-pitying.
“When shall you start?”
“Practically at once—as soon as Cahusac can get away. Are you anxious that I should go quickly?”
“I should feel easier.”
“Can I come to see you before I leave?”
“Best not. It will make no difference between us. The old friendship remains.”