“I am—sorry—Lavinia,” he said in a queer, constrained voice.
It was of no avail. She had killed his love, and he was longing to be rid of her. She walked to the door, and turned.
“I see that you do not love me,” she said, with deadly calmness. “I understand perfectly.” Then, as she wrenched the handle round: “I hate you!” she cried, and fled, her silken skirts rustling furiously down the corridor. A door slammed in the distance, and there was silence.
Carstares stood very still, staring down at her crumpled broidery. Presently he stooped to pick it up, and her violet scent was wafted up to him. He carried it to his lips, passionately.
If Lavinia had been able to see him, it would have changed the whole state of affairs; as it was she locked herself into her room and continued her cry in private. When she had no more tears to shed, she sat up and tried to think that she wanted to elope. Harold would be very good to her, she was sure, and she would doubtless lead a very exciting life, but—somehow the more she thought of it, the less she wanted to elope. Then she remembered that Dicky—why had she never realised how much she cared for him?—was in love with some horrid widow, and did not want her to remain with him. The idea was not to be borne, she was not going to be the unwanted wife. She would have to go away, though not with Lovelace. Dicky should not force her to elope with another man. She would go somewhere alone—she had forgotten—she had no money. The dowry that had been hers was spent years ago. She was utterly dependent on her husband. That settled it: she must elope with Harry!
“Oh, was anyone ever so beset!” she sobbed as her misery swept in upon her with full force. “Why should I run away if I don’t want to?”
