"We couldn't really--be friends?"
Lady Ruth had played her trump card. She had touched his fingers with
hers, her eyes shone with the promise of unutterable things. But if
Wingrave was moved, he did not show it.
"I wish," he said, "that I could accept your offer in the spirit with
which you tender it. Unfortunately, I am a maimed person. My
sensibilities have gone. Friendship, in the more intimate sense of the
word, I may never hope to feel again. Enmity--well, that is more
comprehensible; even enmity," he continued slowly, "which might prompt
a woman to disguise herself as her own lady's maid, to seek out a tool
to get rid of the man she feared. Pardon me, Lady Ruth, you are eating
nothing."
She pulled down her veil.
"Thank you, I have finished," she said in a low tone.
He called for the bill.
"Pray, don't let my little remark distress you," he said. "I had
almost forgotten the circumstance until something you said brought it
into my mind. It is you yourself, you must remember, who set the
example of candor."
"I deserve everything you can say," she murmured, "everything you can
do. There is nothing left, I suppose, but suffering. Will you take me
out to my carriage? You can come back and have your coffee with the
Marchioness! She keeps looking across at you, and it will please her
to think that you got rid of me."
He glanced at his watch.
"I am afraid," he said, rising, "that I must deny myself the pleasure
of seeking the Marchioness again today.
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