She made no reply.
"You have not answered my question. Is your headache better, or gone? You would do well to banish that, like all other hurtful things."
"Hurtful things?" she uttered in echo. "You are right."
"About what? Do we understand one another at last?"
"Tell me," she cried hurriedly, looking up, "whilst we are alone and uninterrupted, where have you been, Mr. Tremenhere?"
She looked, but could not read the anguish which crossed his brow; he made an effort, and subdued it before her.
"Been? shall I tell you truly?"
"Do, and quickly. I would know all now at once."
"I fled, to prove many things—I fled, to live with a memory—I fled, to come back a slave!"
His tone was full of soul, for every word was truth; but she applied it wrongly to herself. He had withdrawn his hand, and passed it over his brow. As it fell listlessly on his knee, she laid hers upon it, and it trembled; it was the action of a moment, and as quickly withdrawn.