"To-night," he told her. "I've had enough. I'll get the boat at Calcutta that brought me."
She tried to realize the situation, but she couldn't in the least. It was all most extraordinary—she knew that. Nine years ago she had been tumultuously in love with this hulking cousin of hers.
Then, on sheer impulse, instigated by the devil within her, yet without the faintest thought of disloyalty, she had flirted riotously with the new curate, and Nibbetts had gone away to war in South Africa in a pet, without so much as a word of farewell.
In an incredibly short time had come the tidings of his death, and what with her crushing sense of irreparable loss and her ravening conscience all the world changed its colors from gay to dun.
Now the nine years of intervening space had rolled themselves into a pellet and dropped out of the actual. There was nothing real in time or place but this—he was there across the little room, alive, whole; and she was here, and they were talking as if yesterday had dated their parting. It was most extraordinary.
He was going so soon, too, and she had so much, so very much, to say.
"But you mustn't," she said simply.
In his answering look was amused amazement. "Oh, I mustn't, eh? And why mustn't I?"
"Do I have to tell you?" But her eyes were turned away.
"Yes, if you wish me to understand."