Had every incident of the past half-hour been a dream? Here was the identical woman who had given him such a glacial welcome, now leaving him with the same air of reserve and aloofness. No, not quite. She was nearly to the door, when of a sudden she faced about and advanced close to him; and for the third time during this extraordinary interview he was so taken aback that he was at a loss for words.
She stood motionless for a time, her pale, cold eyes fixed intently on his serious gray ones. Then she spoke.
"Look closely, Mr. Converse."
He was disconcerted, and made no response. Presently she went on.
"You think I am a strange woman, do you not?—cold, callous, indifferent, incapable of any feeling?"
Still he was at a loss for words.
"You, who read me so well,—who seemed to divine all of Joyce's thoughts and actions,—look deep into my eyes. Am I such a woman?"
Then, to him who gazed so earnestly, it was as if a miracle had happened; as if the icy shell which encased this handsome woman had all at once melted—vanished from before his eyes—and it was given him to read the naked soul beneath. It was as swift in passing, but as vivid, as a flash of lightning.
He retreated a step and bowed low to her.
"Mrs. Westbrook, forgive me; I have misjudged you. I see that your daughter's welfare is as indissolubly a part of your own as if your two lives were one." He paused a moment, then concluded earnestly, "I'll do what I can for her—to free her from this coil. You have my word."