“It was a Bouguereau!”
He was able to smile as he studied her in the shadow of the weather-bleached doorway. He understood, at last, the grim valor of her gaze. And she saw that he understood, and seemed glad of it.
“It’s all ridiculous, of course,” he said with his renewing smile of comprehension. “But it’s at least given me the chance of seeing you again.”
She in turn studied him for a moment or two with her intent eyes. Then she slowly changed color.
“I’m sorry,” she finally said.
“About what?”
Her slow look back over her shoulder had not escaped him. But he was quite satisfied to stand and stare at her. She seemed the only point of life in that house of dead and silent mustiness.
“I can’t talk to you any longer,” she said in lowered tones. “I really can’t!”
“Why not?” he demanded.
“I’d be punished for it,” she told him, without meeting his eye, “cruelly punished.”