“Was it horrid for you?” she asked, as she sat opposite him at table. He was too thin; she saw it now. His hand lay as she knew it, with that curious loose forgottenness of a sleeping animal. She wanted so much to take it and kiss it. But she did not quite dare.

“People are always horrid,” he said.

“And did you mind very much?”

“I minded, as I always shall mind. And I knew I was a fool to mind.”

“Did you feel like a dog with a tin can tied to its tail? Clifford said you felt like that.”

He looked at her. It was cruel of her at that moment: for his pride had suffered bitterly.

“I suppose I did,” he said.

She never knew the fierce bitterness with which he resented insult.