"Oh, how could you think that of me? How could you? He's dead—Benoliel's dead. I thought you'd understand that by my sending to you. Do you think I'd ever have seen you again as long as he was alive? I'm not a wicked woman, dear, I'm only a fool."
She had caught the hand that lay on the arm of his chair, her face was pressed on it, and on it he could feel her tears and her kisses.
"Don't," he said harshly, "don't." But he could not bring himself to draw his hand away otherwise than very gently, and after a decent pause. He stood up and held out his hand. She put hers in it, he raised her to her feet and put her back in her chair, and artfully entrenching himself behind a little table, sat down in a very stiff chair with a high seat and gilt legs.
She laughed. "Oh, don't trouble! You needn't barricade yourself like a besieged castle. Don't be afraid of me. You're really quite safe. I'm not so mad as you think. Only, you know, all this time I've never been able to get the idea out of my head—"
He was afraid to ask what idea.
"I always believed you meant it; that you always would love me, just as you said. I was wrong, that's all. Now go! Do go!"
He was afraid to go.
"No," he said, "let's talk quietly, and like the old friends we were before we—"
"Before we weren't. Well?"