"It has got on," said Frank, "it has got on wonderfully. But don't look at it to-night. It is terrible after sunset."
Margery raised her eyebrows.
"Oh, don't be so silly," she said. "However, I don't mind waiting till to-morrow. Is it good?"
"Come out of this place, and I'll tell you about it."
Outside the west was still luminous with the sunken sun, and as they stepped out on to the terrace Margery turned to look at Frank. His face seemed terribly tired and anxious, and there were deep shades beneath his eyes. But again, as a few moments before in the shadow, she involuntarily shrank from him. There was something in his face more than what mere weariness and anxiety would produce—something she had seen in the face he had sketched two days ago, and the something she knew she had shrunk from before, though she had not seen it. But in a moment she pulled herself together; if she were going to go in for fantastic fears too, the allowance of sanity between them would not be enough for daily consumption. Frank, however, noticed it at once.
"Ah, you too," he said, bitterly—"even you desert me."
Margery took hold of his arm.
"Don't talk sheer, silly nonsense," she said. "I don't know what you mean. I know what's the matter with you. You've been working all day and not going out."
"Yes, I know I have. I couldn't help it. But never mind that now. I have got you back. Margery, you don't give me up really, do you?"
"Frank, what do you mean?" she asked.