“If you were moved for a moment, Lady Pippinworth,” he went on, in a slightly more determined voice,—­“I am far from saying that it was so; but if——­”

“But as I was not——­” she said.

It was no use putting things prettily to her when she snapped you up in this way.

“You know you were,” he said reproachfully.

“I assure you,” said she, “I don’t know what you are talking about, but apparently it is something dreadful; so perhaps one of us ought to go away.”

As he did not take this hint, she opened a tattered Tauchnitz which was lying at her elbow.  They are always lying at your elbow in a Swiss hotel, with the first pages missing.

Tommy watched her gloomily.  “This is unworthy of you,” he said.

“What is?”

He was not quite sure, but as he sat there misgivings entered his mind and began to gnaw.  Was it all a mistake of his?  Undeniably he did think too much.  After all, had she not been moved?  ’Sdeath!

His restlessness made her look up.  “It must be a great load off your mind,” she said, with gentle laughter, “to know that your apology was unnecessary.”

“It is,” Tommy said; “it is.” (’Sdeath!)

She resumed her book.

So this was how one was rewarded for a generous impulse!  He felt very bitter.  “So, so,” he said inwardly; also, “Very well, ve-ry well.”  Then he turned upon himself.  “Serve you right,” he said brutally.  “Better stick to your books, Thomas, for you know nothing about women.”  To think for one moment that he had moved her!  That streak of marble moved!  He fell to watching her again, as if she were some troublesome sentence that needed licking into shape.  As she bent impertinently over her book, she was an insult to man.  All Tommy’s interest in her revived.  She infuriated him.

“Alice,” he whispered.

“Do keep quiet till I finish this chapter,” she begged lazily.

It brought him at once to the boiling-point.

“Alice!” he said fervently.

She had noticed the change in his voice.  “People are looking,” she said, without moving a muscle.

There was some subtle flattery to him in the warning, but he could not ask for more, for just then Mrs. Jerry came in.  She was cloaked for the garden, and he had to go with her, sulkily.  At the door she observed that the ground was still wet.

“Are you wearing your goloshes?” said he, brightening.  “You must get them, Mrs. Jerry; I insist.”

She hesitated. (Her room was on the third floor.) “It is very good of you to be so thoughtful of me,” she said, “but——­”

“But I have no right to try to take care of you,” he interposed in a melancholy voice.  “It is true.  Let us go.”

“I sha’n’t be two minutes,” said Mrs. Jerry, in a flutter, and went off hastily for her goloshes, while he looked fondly after her.  At the turn of the stair she glanced back, and his eyes were still begging her to hurry.  It was a gracious memory to her in the after years, for she never saw him again.