"Oh, 'Tattie' doesn't hurt. Yes, she's going to stay--we're going to be together for a little while." "Where? Don't you want me to ask?" "London," she said. "Have you got any people there?" "No.... The only relation that counts is in the country now. Now mind! You're not to send anything for us two, or you'll offend me. Whatever you send will go to the others, all of it." "Have it your own way," he said quietly. They walked once round the terrace without speaking. "Are you angry?" she asked. "You've hurt rather. You've pitched it back at me. I don't mean the beastly money, but the intention. I think you might have trusted me. On my honour, I'd have taken no advantage of it!" After another pause, she said: "I'm a fool to tell you, but I can't help it.... I'm not on the stage any more, I'm not hard up; I'm--married." "Married?" "I've been married five years." "Good Lord!" he said. "Well-- Not on the stage? What are you doing here then?" "I wasn't acting; I only came down to be in it all again. I--" her smile was wistful, "I was 'trying back'; I wanted to feel as I used to feel--I was dull." He nodded comprehension; "Oh yes! I've done a lot of 'trying back' myself.... Do you care for him?" She gave the faintest shrug. "I wish you weren't going away," he sighed. "I shall often see you again?" "We're the only people left on the pier," said Rosalind. "Don't you think we're having more than our twopenn'orth?" "I shall go to town on Wednesday," he told her, as they turned homeward. "Shall you?" "You haven't answered what I asked you." "I don't know," she said. "Besides you'll soon forget that you wanted to." "If I don't forget?" "Well-- You may write to me." "Where?" "I'll post you a line before I leave," she promised. "We shall leave as early as we can--as soon as we've done your business for you; I sha'n't see you before I go. By-the-bye, I don't know if you're staying at the hotel where we lunched?--there'll be letters for you from the Company to-morrow, too." "No, I'm at the Grand," he said. "My Christian name is 'Conrad.'" It seemed a very short distance to Corporation Road. It seemed untrue that it was only four days since he had stood at the door with her for the first time. They went up the steps, and she did not turn the knob. "Are you coming in?" she murmured. "I daresay Tattie is back." "Do you know I think I'd rather say 'au revoir' to you alone." "Au revoir," she said. Her hand was formal. He was rather chilled. "You mean to post me that line?" he questioned. She nodded. And then in the darkness of the doorway, she laughed, and began to hum the song that he had warned her not to sing. CHAPTER XVIII