"I did not suppose you particularly wished me to speak to you," he said, without turning round to face her.
"Why should you say that?" she asked simply.
"Because I imagine that you look upon me as such an unmitigated blackguard that the very sight of me must be hateful to you."
She said nothing for a moment or two. Perhaps she was still wondering if he was real, and if so, how he came to be here—just to-day and at this hour. Then she went deliberately up to him, put her hand on his arm, and forced him to look at her.
"It is true, then?" she asked, and her eyes, those pixie eyes of hers, luminous and searching, were fastened on his as if seeking to penetrate to the very soul within him. But a look of dull and dogged obstinacy was all that she got in response.
"It is all true, Peter?" she insisted, trying with all her might to steady her voice, so that he should not hear the catch in her throat.
He shrugged his shoulders, indifferent and still obstinate.
"I don't know what you mean," he retorted, almost roughly.
"I mean," she said slowly, "that these last few days have not just been a hideous nightmare, as I still hoped until—until two minutes ago. That things have really happened—that you—that you——"
She paused, physically unable to continue. It was all too vile, too hideous to put into words. Peter gave a harsh laugh.