Then in the same instant that he realized she was unchanged he knew himself to be greatly changed—branded on brow as well as in soul. And he felt that through and through.
He took her hand—both hands—in his and gazed thirstily into her eyes—a serene violet-blue.
"I've blundered, too," he said as a greeting. "I've made an unhappy marriage, too, now. I have more sympathy for you than I had. But she never plays with guns, unfortunately."
He laughed, really quite gaily, for he was awfully glad to feel her hand in his again. And she laughed as well.
"It's funny how people talk, isn't it?" she said. "Of course I never had anything to do with it; but people like to talk—after all these years, too. It was just an accident."
And it was just the other day that she had insisted the reverse. But that was to another man—a different type of man.
He laughed and put his arm about her. "Kiss me, dear," he said. "I'm so very unhappy."
If she had averted her head he would have been her slave afresh; but she didn't avert her head. Instead she kissed him placidly—so placidly that he almost started.
"You see you're married now," she told him and drew her hand out of his and went and sat down.
He felt stunned and sick. It was as if there was no bottom anywhere for a little. But then he remembered.