“Am I so weak?” she thought. “Do I actually like this man, perhaps better than he likes me? But if I were free I think he would like me—I must be free!”
CHAPTER XXXVI.
BY THE SEA.
The next day Ralph Webster went to see a very different woman to the sprightly actress. He went to see pale, sad-faced May Churchill, propped up in an easy chair, with the unmistakable attitudes of weakness and languor in every movement.
A sudden flush, however, rose to her very brows as Webster entered the room, and she nervously held out her hand. She was remembering that momentous meeting on the bridge; remembering her terrible misery and despair.
And the ordinarily calm Webster was also ill at ease. He took the thin, trembling little hand in his, almost without a word; he looked at the altered face, and a strange, painful emotion stirred his heart.
“You are better?” he said a moment later, but not in his usual firm tones.
“Yes, much better,” she answered.
It was the same sweet, low voice that he had listened for too eagerly at his aunts’ house; that had touched some hidden chord in his heart that hitherto had been mute.