myself. I'm quite ready to think it myself.”
“He'd let us be friends—and meet.”
“Let us be friends!” I cried, after a long pause. “You and me!”
“He wants me to be engaged soon. Then, he says, he can go round fighting these rumours, defending us both—and force a quarrel on the Baileys.”
“I don't understand him,” I said, and added, “I don't understand you.”
I was staring at her face. It seemed white and set in the dimness.
“Do you really mean this, Isabel?” I asked.
“What else is there to do, my dear?—what else is there to do at all? I've been thinking day and night. You can't go away with me. You can't smash yourself suddenly in the sight of all men. I'd rather die than that should happen. Look what you