She blushed a furious red. “Can't you guess? You must be as stupid as she is. And, of course, you're wildly angry with me. Aren't you?”
“I certainly wish you hadn't gone to see her.”
“Was it merely to tell me this that you ordered me to come here?” she asked, with a touch of anger in her voice, for however much like God's good angels young women may be, they generally have a spirit of their own.
I felt I had been wanting in tact; also that I had put myself—through an impetuosity foreign to what I had thought to be my character—in a foolish position. If I replied affirmatively to her question, she would have served me perfectly right by tossing her head in the air and marching indignantly out of the room. I temporised.
“In order to understand the extraordinary consequences of your interview, I should like to have some idea of what took place. I know, my dear Eleanor,” I continued as gently as I could, “I know that you went to see her out of the very great kindness of your heart—”
“No, I didn't.”
I made a little gesture in lieu of reply. There was a span of silence. Eleanor played with the silky ears of Agatha's little Yorkshire terrier which had somehow strayed into the room and taken possession of her lap.
“Don't you see, Simon?” she said at last, half tearfully, without taking her eyes off the dog, “don't you see that by accusing me in this way you make it almost impossible for me to speak? And I was going to be so loyal to you.”
A tear fell down her cheek on to the dog's back, and convicted me of unmitigated brutality.
“What else could you be but loyal?” I murmured. “Your attitude all through has shone it.”