would only exaggerate Grandcourt's possible conjectures of duplicity, he merely said—
"I will not stay longer now. Good-bye."
He put out his hand, and she let him press her poor little chill fingers; but she said no good-bye.
When he had left the room, Gwendolen threw herself into a seat, with an expectation as dull as her despair—the expectation that she was going to be punished. But Grandcourt took no notice; he was satisfied to have let her know that she had not deceived him, and to keep a silence which was formidable with omniscience. He went out that evening, and her plea of feeling ill was accepted without even a sneer.
The next morning at breakfast he said, "I am going yachting to the Mediterranean."
"When?" said Gwendolen, with a leap of heart which had hope in it.
"The day after to-morrow. The yacht is at Marseilles. Lush is gone to get everything ready."
"Shall I have mamma to stay with me, then?" said Gwendolen, the new sudden possibility of peace and affection filling her mind like a burst of morning light.
"No; you will go with me."
