"But you never heard his name?"
"Never, madame."
Then, hastily, she had her arrange the lights and give her a fan with which to mask the lower part of her features where the now healing burns were still more or less unsightly.
And then she waited—sure still that she was to be disappointed.
She heard the steps at length in the passage, and fixed her eyes upon the door. But the light was not very good there, either—she had had it concentrated as far as possible on the chair placed for the visitor at least four yards from her bedside, toward the foot and facing her.
He was in the room now, just over the threshold, bowing at what must have seemed to him just a black shadow, and save that he was tall, and that his figure was gracefully slender, what she saw meant nothing to her whatever. He hadn't even spoken, so there was no voice to recognize.
As he came forward, though, there was something in his walk and carriage that seemed familiar, though she couldn't place them for the life of her.
"Do sit down," she urged. "There! I'd rather you wouldn't come nearer."
Still he didn't speak. But he sat down as she bade him with the light full on his face, and she saw he was Gerald Andrews.
It was quite a minute before she could speak. Then, "You—of all the persons in the world!" she breathed barely above a whisper.