"I am going to walk down, and you must come a little way with me," she commanded, as they moved up the aisle in the crowd.
When they were out in the street and had distanced the knots and groups of people, so that they could not be overheard, Teresa said, looking straight ahead:
"Would you rather I didn't speak of it?"
Gerald made a hopeless gesture. "No use," he said bitterly. "I'm only sorry I've made a damned fool of myself and spoilt your afternoon. Don't think about me."
"You know I can't help it. Gerald, how long is it since—since you"
"Since I made a beast of myself last time? It's nearly three months, and now it's got to come. Don't—let me go now—I hate myself for going to your house to-day. Will you forgive me? Yes, I know you will, and you despise me, and you ought to despise me, Teresa. I ought to have the decency to keep away from you altogether—it's the only sort of decency I might have still."
They had reached a street corner, and Gerald stopped short. Teresa felt, suddenly, very tired, very weak, and inclined to cry. The look in his eyes chilled and disgusted her, as it had done before. She put her grey muff up to her face, and two tears suddenly fell on the fur.
"Oh, Teresa—don't, for God's sake! It doesn't
