In sight of the whitewashed cottages Honoria slipped down from her saddle, removed Aide-de-camp’s bridle, and turned him loose to browse. With the bridle on her arm she walked forward alone. She came noiselessly on the turf, and with the click of the gate her shadow fell at Humility’s feet. Humility looked up and saw her standing against the sunset, in her dark habit. Even in that instant she saw also that Honoria’s face, though shaded, was more beautiful than of old. “More dangerous” she told herself; and rose, knowing that the problem was to be solved at last.
“Good-evening!” she said, rising. “Oh yes—you must come inside, please; but you will have to forgive our untidiness.”
Honoria followed, wondering as of old at the beautiful manners which dignified Humility’s simplest words.
“I heard that you were to go.”
“Yes; we have been packing for a week past. To North Wales it is— a forsaken spot, no better than this. But I suppose that’s the sort of spot where light-houses are useful.”
The sun slanted in upon the packed trunks and dismantled walls; but it blazed also upon brass window-catches, fender-knobs, door-handles—all polished and flashing like mirrors.
“I am come,” said Honoria, “now at the last—to ask your pardon.”
“At the last?” Humility seemed to muse, staring down at one of the trunks; then went on as if speaking to herself. “Yes, yes, it has been a long time.”
“A long injury—a long mistake; you must believe it was an honest mistake.”
“Yes,” said Humility gravely. “I never doubted you had been misled. God forbid I should ask or seek to know how.”