I shook my head, but made no other answer.
"I'm sorry," she went on softly, "that I came to Hatchstead; I'm sorry that I brought you to London, that I met you in the Lane, that I brought you here to-day. I didn't guess your folly. I've lived with players, and with courtiers, and with—with one other; so I didn't dream of such folly as yours. Yes, I'm sorry."
"You can give me joy infinitely greater than any sorrow I've had by you," said I in a low voice.
On this she sat silent for a full minute, seeming to study my face. Then she looked to right and left, as though she would fain have escaped. She laughed a little, but grew grave again, saying, "I don't know why I laughed," and sighing heavily. I watched every motion and change in her, waiting for her to speak again. At last she spoke.
"You won't be angry with me, Simon?" she asked coaxingly.
"Why, no," I answered, wondering.
"Nor run quite mad, nor talk of death, nor any horrors?"
"I'll hear all you say calmly," I answered.
She sat looking at me in a whimsical distress, seeming to deprecate wrath and to pray my pardon yet still to hint amusement deep-hidden in her mind. Then she drew herself up, and a strange and most pitiful pride appeared on her face. I did not know the meaning of it. She leant forward towards me, blushing a little, and whispered my name.
"I'm waiting to hear you," said I; my voice came hard, stern, and cold.