Yet here—here is rest. Here there is no one to breathe detestable congratulations into his ear—no one.
A tall, slight figure rises from a couch that is half hidden by a
Chinese screen. She comes forward a step or two. Her face is pale.
It is Marian Bethune.
"You!" says she in a low, strange voice. "Have _you _come here, too, to think?" She speaks with difficulty. Then all at once she makes a stray movement with her hands, and brings herself to her senses by a passionate effort. "You are like me, you want quiet," says she, with a very ordinary little laugh; "so you came here. Well, shall I leave you?"
She is looking very beautiful. Her pallor, the violet shades beneath her eyes, all tend to make her lovely.
"It is you who have left me."
"I? Oh no! Oh, think!" says she, laughing still.
Rylton draws a long breath.
"After all, it could never have come to anything," says he, in a dull sort of way.
"Never, never," smiling.
"I don't believe you care," says he bitterly.