"There!" he said at last. "There's nothing to cry about. Finish what
you were saying when I interrupted you. I think you were in the middle
of throwing me over, weren't you? At least, you had got through that
part of it, and were just going to tell me why."
His tone was reassuringly flippant.
Looking up at him, she saw the old kindly, quizzical look on his face.
He met her eyes, nodding shrewdly.
"Let's have it," he said, "straight from the shoulder. You're tired of
me, eh?"
She drew back from him, but with no gesture of shrinking. "I'm tired
of everything--everything," she said, a little passionate quiver in
her voice. "I wish--I wish with all my heart, you had left me to die."
"Is that the grievance?" said Nick. He sat down on the head of the
sofa, and drove his fist into the cushion. "If I could explain things
to you, I would. But you're such a chicken, aren't you, dear, and
about as easily scared? Since when have you harboured this grudge
against me?"
The gentle banter of his tone did not deceive her into imagining that
she could trifle with him, nor was she addicted to trifling. She
made answer with a certain warmth of indignation that seemed to have
kindled on its own initiative and wholly without her volition.
"I haven't, I don't. I'm not so absurd.
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