THE CONFIDANTE
Maurice tried his hardest to endure her. She heard him breathing heavily.
"It's really quite unnecessary to have a fire," she soliloquised. "But it makes a point in a room, I always think. Keeps one in countenance. Humanises things a bit. Makes a centre point for———"
She became incoherent. Maurice's irritation audibly increased. They were both conscious of the oppression of the darkening, rain-loud room.
"You're forcing our hands rather," said Maurice.
"Forcing you into the banality of meeting each other sanely and normally in my drawing-room, with no necessity to converse in allusions, insinuations, and doubles-entendres? With me blessing you both and beaming sympathetically on you from afar? Bullying you into that? . . .
"I'm sorry!" she flashed round on him, impenitently.
"You don't understand," he winced, and looked round him for his hat. "I think it would be best for me to go."
"I suppose I mustn't keep you," she
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