"Why did you come? I told you not to come. Of course I meant to wire in answer to your letter that you were to stay in London. What was the use of my running away?"
I saw that he fingered the hem of her skirt, and watched her all the time she spoke.
"Tomorrow I shall have no expectation in the post. I hate not to care whether my letters come or not. And Monday too. You have spoiled two mornings for me."
"I am not as satisfying as my letters to you." Even his voice was changed, the musical charming Stanton voice. His had deepened and there was the note of an organ in it. She looked at him critically or caressingly.
"Not quite, not yet. I understand your letters better than I do you. And you are never twice alike, not quite alike. We part as friends, intimates. Then we come together again and you are almost a stranger; we have to begin all over again."
"I am sorry." He looked perplexed. "How do I change or vary? I cannot bear to think that you should look upon me as a stranger."
"Only for a few moments."
"When you met me at the station today?"
"I was at the station early, and then was vexed I had come, looking about me to see if there were any one I knew or who knew me. I took refuge at the bookstall, found 'The Immoralists' among
