“Yes, it is I,” she said, almost inaudibly, her heart beating so loudly in her ears as almost to drown her voice.
“You! You!” he repeated, looking round as if he could not believe the evidence of his senses. “You, and here! Good Heavens, I thought I was dreaming!” he muttered. “I—I thought you were—when did you come here?” he broke off as if he scarcely knew what he was saying; his eyes devouring her face with the expression in them which might shine in the eyes of a man who, dying of thirst, sees the limpid stream—just beyond his reach.
“I—I came here, to Italy, some months ago, my lord,” she said, and her voice sounded strange and hollow.
“Some months, some months?” he repeated, putting his hand to his head and pushing the hair from his forehead; a trick which Doris remembered with a vividness which was like a stab.
“Why, how could that be? You could not get back from Australia—and yet, yes, I suppose so!”
She started and looked at him, and was about to exclaim, “Australia? I have never been there, my lord!” when she thought it better to remain silent, remembering the marquis’ story.
“You—you did not stay long,” he said. “Were you, are you happy?” he asked, abruptly.
She turned her head away; her lips quivering at the dull accents of pain in his voice.
“Few mortals are happy, my lord,” she replied, in a low voice.
He waved his hand impatiently.