She put up her hand as if to check him, feeling, perhaps, some mockery in these words which was not apparent in his voice.
"We need not make excuses to each other," she said, in a cold, hard tone, "neither you nor I came here for that."
"Scarcely, I believe," and he laughed in a reckless way, which appeared natural to him.
Elizabeth Mellen shuddered in every limb at that repulsive sound; an absolute spasm of pain contracted her features, she gave no other sign of emotion, but clenched her hands hard together, forcing herself to be calm.
"I only received your letter this morning," he continued, watching her every movement carefully, while standing there with his back against a tree with apparent unconcern; "I should have been earlier, had it been possible."
She made an impatient gesture.
"No more of that," she exclaimed, "enough!"
He looked at her with the same careless smile that lighted up his somewhat worn face into an expression of absolute youthfulness. He was still a splendidly handsome man; a type of rare beauty which could not have failed to attract general observation wherever he appeared.
He was tall; the shoulders and limbs might have served as a model for a sculptor; the neck was white almost as a woman's; the magnificent head set with perfect grace upon it, and was carried with a haughty air that was absolutely noble. He might have been thirty-eight, perhaps even older than that, but he was one of those men concerning whose age even a physiognomist would be puzzled to decide.
The face was almost faultless in its contour; the mouth, shaded by a long silken moustache, which relieved his paleness admirably, and lent new splendor to his eyes, which possessed a strange magnetic power that had worked ill in more than one unfortunate destiny.