“St. John’s. No, I do not think,—I hope that it was not at Oxford. Some day I shall think of it quite suddenly.”
Berenice rose from her chair with a sudden, tempestuous movement and stood before him.
“Listen!” she exclaimed. “Supposing I were to tell you that I knew or could guess who that man was—why he came! Oh, if I were to tell you that I were a fraud, that——”
Matravers stopped her.
“I beg,” he said, “that you will tell me nothing!”
There was a short silence. Berenice seemed on the point of breaking down. She was nervously lacing and interlacing her fingers. Her breath was coming spasmodically.
“Berenice,” he said softly, “you are over-wrought; you are not quite yourself to-night. Do not tell me anything. Indeed, there is no need for me to know; just as you are I am content with you, and proud to be your friend.”
“Ah!”
She sat down again. He could not see her face, but he fancied that she was weeping. He himself found his customary serenity seriously disturbed. Perhaps for the first time in his life he found himself not wholly the master of his emotions. The atmosphere of the little room, the perfume of the flowers, the soft beauty of the woman herself, whose breath fell almost upon his cheek, affected him as nothing of the sort had ever done before. He rose abruptly to his feet.