She was white, rings showed round her eyes, her breath coming short.
"It was the length of Maria's legs which made me so tired," she said. "Don't stare, Darby. Oh, Darby!"
She came across, holding out cold trembling hands.
Darby rang the bell sharply, ordering strong coffee.
"I came, Darby"—she knelt down, the glow of the fire-light turning her hair to bronze—"I came, because you've always helped me, to know if you'd—marry me, Darby?"
He held the cold hands more closely, he hid the bitter pain which leapt into his eyes. She had come to offer herself to the man who had loved her so long, simply that she might be free.
"It would be a poor thing to do," he said slowly; "there is something more than freedom and paying out Dearest George in matrimony, Gheena, something more."
Gheena showed no surprise. It seemed to her natural that her reasons should be so plain.
"But you like me, Darby, and if you won't, I'll ask the Professor, or someone."
He looked for one glimpse of love in her eyes, for anything except the complete trust and the weariness of the overstrained face, as she explained that she would not endure for four years, and that she wanted a friend.