I had entered the room,
feeling that Sir Percival Glyde had fair reason to complain of the
manner in which she was treating him. I left it, secretly hoping
that matters might end in her taking him at his word and claiming
her release. A man of my age and experience ought to have known
better than to vacillate in this unreasonable manner. I can make
no excuse for myself; I can only tell the truth, and say--so it
was.
The hour for my departure was now drawing near. I sent to Mr.
Fairlie to say that I would wait on him to take leave if he liked,
but that he must excuse my being rather in a hurry. He sent a
message back, written in pencil on a slip of paper: "Kind love and
best wishes, dear Gilmore. Hurry of any kind is inexpressibly
injurious to me. Pray take care of yourself. Good-bye."
Just before I left I saw Miss Halcombe for a moment alone.
"Have you said all you wanted to Laura?" she asked.
"Yes," I replied. "She is very weak and nervous--I am glad she
has you to take care of her."
Miss Halcombe's sharp eyes studied my face attentively.
"You are altering your opinion about Laura," she said. "You are
readier to make allowances for her than you were yesterday."
No sensible man ever engages, unprepared, in a fencing match of
words with a woman.
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