“Yes, of course. Always shake hands when you you leave the room.”
There was silence for a moment after the boys had gone. Catherine broke it.
“I have just had a telegram from America,” she said, “from Thurso himself. He is better. He says he is cured. He asks me if I will go there, or if he shall come back.”
She was still sitting on the hearth-rug, where she had been playing with her sons. But here she got up.
“I think I shall go to him,” she said quietly. “That will be the best plan for—several reasons.”
And then the situation, which she had thought of as being of the nature of Adelphi melodrama, broke down from the melodramatic point of view, and began to play itself on more natural lines. He should have been the villain of the piece, she the gutteral heroine. But he was not a villain any more than she was a heroine.
“I think I have always loved you,” she said. “But I can’t be mean. He says he is cured. And—he asks my forgiveness, though he had it already. He asks it, you see. That makes a difference. If I stopped here, if I—— In that case I should be refusing it him. It would amount to that.”
Villars put down his cup, and looked at her, but without moving, without speaking.
“Say something,” she said.
He got up too, and stood by her.