There was a small mirror upon the wall of the room. Her eye in accordance with an instinct feminine, fell swiftly upon it. She lifted her veil to see how far the experiences she had gone through had affected her most potent talisman.
"Heavens!" she thought, "what a fright!"
To take off her hat was the work of a moment. Her swift, subtle fingers busied themselves with her rebellious curls. Another glance reassured her a little. She felt more confident. She coughed again, but as before, he did not move.
"Mr. Sempland," she said softly at last, in sheer desperation.
He turned on his heel as suddenly as if he had been moved by a spring, and faced her. He had been longing for a chance to recede from his position.
"Miss Glen," he answered with depressing coldness.
"You—you—don't—seem very glad—to see me, sir."
The moment was one of great importance to both of them; their future, the life and happiness of one, the honor and good name of the other, depended upon it—so they thought at least. The conversation accordingly began, as conversations under such circumstances usually begin, in trivialities.
"I am not," he answered shortly and mendaciously as well.
"I suppose not. I noticed that you—your welcome—wasn't very cordial, I am sure."