Peter felt rising in him a cold and surging anger at her treatment of them. These two, the best friends that he had in the world—that she should dare!
“Oh! you'll stay to dinner, you two! You must—”
“I'm afraid, ver' afraid,” Mr. Zanti said bowing very low and still looking at Clare with apologetic, troubled eyes, “we 'ave no time. Immediate business.”
Still Clare said nothing.
There was another moment's silence, and then Peter said:
“I'll come down and see you off.” Still without moving from her place she shook hands with them.
“Good-bye.”
They all three went out.
Peter could say nothing. The words seemed to be choked in his throat by this tide of anger that was like nothing he had ever felt before.
He held their hands for a moment as they stood outside in the dusk.
“Where are you staying? I must see you again—”
“We go down to Cornwall to-morrow.”
Stephen caught Peter's shoulder:
“Come down to us, Peter, if you get a chance.”
They all stared at one another; they were all, absolutely, entirely without words. Afterwards they would regret that they had said nothing, but now—!
They vanished into the dusk and Peter, stepping into the house again, closed very softly the hall door behind him.
