Conscience Tollman was in a dangerous mood, and some of her belligerency of spirit Stuart Farquaharson saw as he came quietly to her side and spoke her name, gently, as one might speak to a sleep walker.
"Why did you come?" She looked at him a little wildly and her voice shook. "I wanted to be alone."
"I was troubled about you," he said very gently. "You had been away so long."
Her courage was almost prostrate, but it still had that resilient power which rises from exhaustion for one effort more. There was in her the spirit of the Phœnix, and realizing how clearly he would read defeat in the limp droop of her shoulders, she straightened them, not abruptly, but as one who has been sitting at ease draws up into a less careless attitude upon the arrival of another. She even smiled and spoke with a voice no longer tremulous.
"Yes, I did stay longer than necessary. The music bored me and down here it was very quiet—and inviting."
"Conscience," he said seriously, "you were more than bored, you were distracted."
But at that, she laughed almost convincingly. "Must one be distracted to enjoy an occasional moment of solitude? It's the favorite recipe of philosophers."
"Your attitude wasn't that of enjoying solitude. It was that of despair."
"I was a little fagged. I'm all right now."
As if in demonstration of her assertion she rose with a dryad lightness and stepped forward for inspection into a spot of moonlight, where she stood illuminated—and smiling.