She did not reproach herself at all. She could not see, indeed, that she was to blame. But she was none the less distressed. Giraud's exhibition of grief was so utterly unfamiliar to her that she felt awkward and helpless in face of it. He was yet further disfigured now by the traces of weeping; his eyes were swollen and red. There was something grotesque in the aspect of this drink-swollen face, all convulsed with sorrow. Nothing could well lie less in sympathy with Pamela's nature than Giraud's outburst and display of tears; for she was herself reticent and proud. She held her head high as she walked through the world, mistress alike of her sorrows and her joys. But Mr. Mudge had spoken the truth when he had called upon her in Leicestershire. Imagination had come to her of late. She was able to understand the other point of view--to appreciate that there were other characters than hers which must needs fulfil themselves in ways which were not hers. She put herself now in M. Giraud's place. She imagined him waiting and waiting at Roquebrune, with his one window on the outside world closed and shuttered--a man in a darkened room who most passionately desired the air without. She said, with a trace of hesitation--
"You say you have needed me very much?"
"Oh, have I not?" exclaimed Giraud; and the very weariness of his voice would have convinced her, had she needed conviction. It seemed to express the dilatory passage of the years during which he had looked for her coming, and had looked in vain.
"Well, then, listen to me," she went on. "I was once told that to be needed by those whom one needs is a great comfort. I thought of the saying at the time, and I thought that it was a true one. Afterwards"--she began to speak slowly, carefully selecting her words--"it happened that in my own experience I proved it to be true--at all events, for me. Is it true for you also? Think well. If it is not true I will go away as you bade me at the beginning; but if it is true--why, then I may be of some little help to you, and you will be certainly a great help to me; for I need you very surely."
M. Giraud looked at her in silence for a little while. Then he answered her with simplicity, and so, for the first time during this interview, wore the proper dignity of a man.
"Yes, I will help you," he said. "What can I do?"
She held out the letter which she had written to Lionel Callon. She bade him carry it with the best speed he could to its destination.
"Lose no time!" she implored. "I am not sure, but it may be that one man's life, and the happiness of a man and a woman besides, all hang upon its quick receipt."
M. Giraud took his hat from the wall and went to the door. At the door he paused, and standing thus, with an averted face, he said in a whisper, recalling the words she had lately spoken--
"There is one, then, whom you need? You are no longer lonely in your thoughts? I should like to know."