He turned towards her as he spoke, and his words were charged with meaning. She began quickly to speak of something else, but he interrupted her.
"Louise," he said, "is London so far from St. Étarpe?"
"What do you mean?" she asked.
"I think that you know very well," he answered. "I am sure that you do. At St. Étarpe you were content to accept what, believe me, is quite inevitable. Here—well, you have been doing all you can to avoid me, haven't you?"
"Perhaps," she admitted. "St. Étarpe was an interlude. I told you so. You ought to have understood that."
They entered the Park, and Wrayson was silent for a few minutes. He led the way towards an empty seat.
"Let us sit down," he said, "and talk this out."
She hesitated.
"I think———" she began, but he interrupted her ruthlessly.
"If you prefer it, I will come to the Baroness with you," he declared.
She shrugged her shoulders and sat down.
"Very well," she said, "but I warn you that I am in a bad temper. I am hot and tired and dusty. We shall probably quarrel."
He looked at her critically. She was a little pale, perhaps, but there was nothing else to indicate that she had just arrived from a journey. Her dress of dull black glacé silk was cool and spotless, her hat and veil were immaculate. Always she had the air of having just come from the hands of an experienced maid. From the tips of her patent shoes to the fall of her veil, she was orderly and correct.
