She was no longer pale. Her eyes were filled with an exceedingly soft light. She leaned towards him, and her face shone as the face of a woman who prays that she may hear the one thing in life a woman craves to hear from the lips she loves best.
“Go on,” she murmured.
“I want to ask you, Miss Penelope,” he continued, “whether you remember the day when you paid a visit to my house?”
“Very well,” she answered.
“I was showing you a casket,” he went on.
She gripped his arm.
“Don’t!” she begged. “Don’t, I can’t bear any more of that. You don’t know how horrible it seems to me! You don’t know—what fears I have had!”
He looked away from her.
“I have sometimes wondered,” he said, “what your thoughts were at that moment, what you have thought of me since.”
She shivered a little, but did not answer him.