Again there came that curious pain at his heartstrings, and the singing in his ears. The pen slipped from his fingers; his head drooped.
“Berenice!” he whispered. “Berenice!”
And as though by a miracle she heard him, for she was close at hand. Whilst he had been writing, the door was softly opened and closed, a tall, grey-mantled figure stood upon the threshold. It was Berenice!
“May I come in?” she cried softly. Her face was flushed, and her cheeks were wet, but a smile was quivering upon her lips.
He did not answer. She came into the room, close to his side. Her fingers clasped the hand which was hanging over the side of his chair. The lamp had burnt very low; she could scarcely see his face.
“Dear, I have come to you,” she murmured. “I am sorry. I want you to forgive me. I do love you! you know that I love you!”
The pressure of her fingers upon his hand was surely returned. She stood up, and her cloak slipped from her shoulders on to the floor.
“Why don’t you speak to me? Don’t you hear? Don’t you understand? I have come to you! I will not be sent away! It is too late! My carriage brought me here. I have told my people that I shall not be returning! Come away with me to-night! Let us start now! Listen! it is too late to draw back! Every one knows that I have come to you! We shall be so happy! Tell me that you are glad!”