“If you don’t want me to go I shall stay,” she murmured. But the sense of being already half reinstated was driven away by Mrs. Orly’s unaltered distress.
“Ungrateful?” The gustily panting tones were the remainder of the real anger he had felt, listening to Mr. Hancock’s discourse. They had no grievance and they had misunderstood his.
“No,” she said coldly, “I don’t think so.”
“Hang it all, excuse my language, but y’know he’s done a good deal for ye.” “All expectation of gratitude is meanness and is continually punished by the total insensibility of the obliged person.” … “we are lucky; we ought to be grateful;” meaning, to God. Then unlucky people ought to be ungrateful. …
“Besides,” the same gusty tone “it’s as good as telling us we’re not gentlemen; y’see?” The blue eyes flashed furiously.
Then all her generalisations had been taken personally . … “Oh well,” she said helplessly.
“We shall be late, laddie.”
“Surely that can be put right. I must talk to Mr. Hancock.”
“Well, to tell y’honestly I don’t think y’ll be able to do anything with Hancock.” Mrs. Orly’s distressed little face supported his opinion, and her surprising sudden little embrace and Mr. Orly’s wringing handshake meant not only the enduring depths of their kindliness but their pained dismay in seeing her desolate and resourceless, their certainty that there was no hope. It threw a strong light. It would be difficult for him to withdraw; perhaps impossible; perhaps he had already engaged another secretary. … But she found that she had not watched them go away and was dealing steadily with the letters, with a blank mind upon which presently emerged the features of the coming weekend.