She was not afraid of violence, but she was afraid of something mean, some secondary kind of force. He flung aside all his talk of help and disinterested friendship as though it had never been even a disguise between them, as though from the first it was no more than a fancy dress they had put quite understandingly upon their relationship. Her hair once more was arranged with its old simplicity. “Forgive me,” he decided to say at last, and his voice had a little quiver of emotion, and he laid his hand on hers upon her knee. She ignored it until it repeated itself. Could you come to tea at my rooms one afternoon, or would you dine with me somewhere, and do a theatre? We could have a private room, of course, if you do not wish to be seen about London, and a box at the theatre. “It was inevitable,” he declared. She went to the post-office and drew out and sent off her money to Ramage.
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