“Mary,” he said, “this is all so surprising. I did not expect it. We have lived so long and gone our own ways, and you have seemed until just lately so utterly content, that I quite forgot that anywhere in this butterfly little body there might be such a thing as a soul. Will you give me time, dear?”
“All the time you ask for,” she answered. “Oh! I know that I am asking a great deal, but you see I am not a very strong person, and if I give up everything else, I do want someone to lean on just a little. You are very strong, Henry,” she added, softly.
He took her face between his hands, and he kissed her, without passion, yet kindly, even tenderly.
“My dear,” he said, “I must think this thing out. At any rate, we might start by seeing a little more of one another?”
“Yes!” she answered shyly. “I should like that.”
“I will drive you down to Ranelagh to-morrow,” he said, “alone, and we will have lunch there.”
“I shall love it,” she answered. “Good night!”
She kissed him timidly, and flitted away into her room with a little backward glance and a wave of the hand. Rochester stood where she had left him, watching the place where she had disappeared, with the look in his eyes of a man who sees a ghost.