The little silence which had ended his speech dragged on from seconds into minutes. In the quiet room nothing stirred. She attempted to free herself from his gaze by refusing to look at him. Against her will her eyes crept up to his, clashed, evaded, fell back and again crept up to them.
At last, speaking humbly, she said, "I was ashamed. You made me ashamed. Whatever I'd
done, if he came back, he wouldn't be ashamed of me. It wouldn't matter how cowardly I'd been or however many husbands I'd had; he'd be so glad to have me in his arms that he wouldn't find time to be ashamed of me. So I'm not going to be ashamed any longer; I'm going to start to live as if he were coming back. It'll be hard at first. Adair—he was nothing. And yet—— I shall miss him, no doubt. You said something this afternoon that you didn't mean."
"Didn't I? What was it?"
"It was when I was crying because nobody wanted me. Do you remember what you said? You said, 'I do,' not meaning a word of it. Could you manage to want me just a little, Lord Taborley? Not for long, you know; only till I've got past the loneliest places—till I've begun almost to persuade myself that he may come back. To think that you wanted me would help."
Before he could answer, she had sprung to her feet, all but over-turning the lamp. "What's that?"
A sharp rat-a-tat-tat had reverberated through the house. While she spoke, it was repeated. Her over-strung nerves gave way. As Tabs rose, she clung to him beseechingly. "Don't let him in. I'm not ready for him. Don't let him in. Go outside and send him away. Tell him anything. But don't let him enter."
Tabs had no clear idea to whom she was referring. It might have been to Adair. It might have been to Pollock. It seemed more likely that it was to her dead husband. This talk about living as though he
might come back had probably distraught an imagination already over-taxed.
"He sha'n't enter," he assured her. "There's no need to lose your nerve."