Agatha had turned unintentionally into the opposite alley to that which the others had chosen.  When she saw what she had done, and found herself virtually alone with Trefusis, who had followed her, she blamed him for it, and was about to retrace her steps when he said coolly: 

“Were you shocked when you heard of Henrietta’s sudden death?”

Agatha struggled with herself for a moment, and then said in a suppressed voice:  “How dare you speak to me?”

“Why not?” said he, astonished.

“I am not going to enter into a discussion with you.  You know what I mean very well.”

“You mean that you are offended with me; that is plain enough.  But when I part with a young lady on good terms, and after a lapse of years, during which we neither meet nor correspond, she asks me how I dare speak to her, I am naturally startled.”

“We did not part on good terms.”

Trefusis stretched his eyebrows, as if to stretch his memory.  “If not,” he said, “I have forgotten it, on my honor.  When did we part, and what happened?  It cannot have been anything very serious, or I should remember it.”

His forgetfulness wounded Agatha.  “No doubt you are well accustomed to—­” She checked herself, and made a successful snatch at her normal manner with gentlemen.  “I scarcely remember what it was, now that I begin to think.  Some trifle, I suppose.  Do you like orchids?”

“They have nothing to do with our affairs at present.  You are not in earnest about the orchids, and you are trying to run away from a mistake instead of clearing it up.  That is a short-sighted policy, always.”

Agatha grew alarmed, for she felt his old influence over her returning.  “I do not wish to speak of it,” she said firmly.

Her firmness was lost on him.  “I do not even know what it means yet,” he said, “and I want to know, for I believe there is some misunderstanding between us, and it is the trick of your sex to perpetuate misunderstandings by forbidding all allusions to them.  Perhaps, leaving Lyvern so hastily, I forgot to fulfil some promise, or to say farewell, or something of that sort.  But do you know how suddenly I was called away?  I got a telegram to say that Henrietta was dying, and I had only time to change my clothes—­you remember my disguise—­and catch the express.  And, after all, she was dead when I arrived.”

“I know that,” said Agatha uneasily.  “Please say no more about it.”

“Not if it distresses you.  Just let me hope that you did not suppose I blamed you for your share in the matter or that I told the Janseniuses of it.  I did not.  Yes, I like orchids.  A plant that can subsist on a scrap of board is an instance of natural econ—­”

“You blame me!” cried Agatha. “I never told the Janseniuses.  What would they have thought of you if I had?”

“Far worse of you than of me, however unjustly.  You were the immediate cause of the tragedy; I only the remote one.  Jansenius is not far-seeing when his feelings are touched.  Few men are.”