We both stand still and gaze at each other. As far as I am concerned, time dies; I forget these weary months at Hazelton. I think of our parting at Strangemore. His eyes are reading, examining with undisguised pain, the changes in my face and form. At length he speaks.
"I hardly thought to meet you here, Mrs. Carrington," he says, advancing slowly, and addressing me in the low, hushed tone one adopts towards the sick or dying. He appears agitated.
I regard him with fixed coldness.
"You, who know all," I say, with quiet emphasis, "why do you call me by that name? Call me Phyllis; that, at least still remains to me."
He flushes crimson, and a pained look comes into hie eyes.
"I suppose," I go on, curiously, "that last warning you gave Marmaduke at the library door at home—at Strangemore," correcting myself without haste, "had reference to—that woman? Am I right?"
"Yes; I regret now having ever uttered it."
"Regrets are useless, and your words did no harm. Thinking of things since, I knew they must have meant an allusion to her."
"How calmly you speak of it!" he says, amazed.
"I speak as I feel," I reply.