“I cannot tell you,” she answered, with her eyes upon her plate, “but I think that he did.”
Dominey walked suddenly to the window and leaned out. There were drops of moisture upon his forehead, he felt the fierce need of air. When he came back she was still sitting there, still looking down.
“I have spoken to Doctor Harrison about it,” she went on, her voice scarcely audible. “He told me that you probably loved more than you dared to show, because someday the real Everard might come back.”
“That is quite true,” he reminded her softly. “He may come back at any moment.”
She gripped his hand, her voice shook with passion. She leaned towards him, her other arm stole around his neck.
“But I don't want him to come back!” she cried. “I want you!”
Dominey sat for a moment motionless, like a figure of stone. Through the wide-flung, blind-shielded windows came the raucous cry of a newsboy, breaking the stillness of the summer evening. And then another and sharper interruption,—the stopping of a taxicab outside, the firm, insistent ringing of the front doorbell. Recollection came to Dominey, and a great strength. The fire which had leaped up within him was thrust back. His response to her wave of passion was infinitely tender.
“Dear Rosamund,” he said, “that front doorbell summons me to rather an important interview. Will you please trust in me a little while longer? Believe me, I am not in any way cold. I am not indifferent. There is something which you will have to be told,—something with which I never reckoned, something which is beginning to weigh upon me night and day. Trust me, Rosamund, and wait!”
She sank back into her chair with a piquant and yet pathetic little grimace.
“You tell me always to wait,” she complained. “I will be patient, but you shall tell me this. You are so kind to me. You make or mar my life. You must care a little? Please?”