He tortured himself with the thought of her tears. But at the same
time he was relieved. Imagined grief was more easy to bear than grief
seen, and he was free now to love Mildred with all his soul. His heart
leaped at the thought of going to see her that afternoon, when his day's
work at the hospital was over.
When as usual he went back to his rooms to tidy himself, he had no sooner
put the latch-key in his door than he heard a voice behind him.
"May I come in? I've been waiting for you for half an hour."
It was Norah. He felt himself blush to the roots of his hair. She spoke
gaily. There was no trace of resentment in her voice and nothing to
indicate that there was a rupture between them. He felt himself cornered.
He was sick with fear, but he did his best to smile.
"Yes, do," he said.
He opened the door, and she preceded him into his sitting-room. He was
nervous and, to give himself countenance, offered her a cigarette and lit
one for himself. She looked at him brightly.
"Why did you write me such a horrid letter, you naughty boy? If I'd taken
it seriously it would have made me perfectly wretched."
"It was meant seriously," he answered gravely.
"Don't be so silly. I lost my temper the other day, and I wrote and
apologised. You weren't satisfied, so I've come here to apologise again.
After all, you're your own master and I have no claims upon you.
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