A knock came on the door. Young Blake unlocked it, and stood opposite to it. His face was pale now.
"He shan't come near you," he whispered to Sibylla over his shoulder.
She made no sign. She sat resting her clasped hands on the table and gazing intently towards the door. There was no sign of confusion or of guilt about her. Her face was composed and calm. Young Blake's fists were clenched. He seemed to keep himself still with an effort.
The door opened, and Grantley appeared on the threshold. He was very wet; the rain dripped from his hat as he took it off his head; salt spray hung on the hair over his ears. He shook himself as he shut the door behind him. Then he looked from Sibylla to Blake, and back to Sibylla, at last fixing his eyes on her.
"You can't come in here," said Blake. "I'll come outside with you, if you like, but you can't come in here."
Grantley took no notice. His eyes were on Sibylla.
"Am I too late, Sibylla?" he asked.
"Yes," she answered tranquilly, "too late."
A sudden flush swept over Grantley's face, but in an instant his usual pallor had returned.
"In the sense in which I spoke, is that true, Sibylla?"