“I am sure of it,” he answered, “but you see you came.”
She was thoughtful for a moment.
“This reminds me just a little of that first dreary feast of ours,” she said. “You knew what it was like then to feed a genuinely starving girl. And I was miserable, Leonard. It didn't seem to me that there was any other end save one.”
“You've got over all that nonsense?” he asked anxiously.
“Yes, I suppose so,” she answered. “You see, I've started life again and one gets stronger. But there are times even now,” she added, “when I am afraid.”
The mirth had suddenly died from her face. She looked older, tired, and careworn. The shadows were back under her eyes; she glanced around almost timorously. He filled her glass.
“That is foolishness,” he said. “Nothing nor anybody can harm you now.”
Some note in his voice attracted her attention. Strong and square, with hard, forceful face, he sat wholly at his ease among these unfamiliar surroundings, a very tower of refuge, she felt, to the weak. His face was not strikingly intellectual—she was not sure now about his mouth—but one seemed to feel that dogged nature, the tireless pains by which he would pursue any aim dear to him. The shadows passed away from her mind. What was dead was gone! It was not reasonable that she should be haunted all her days by the ghosts of other people's sins. The atmosphere of the place, the atmosphere of the last few hours, found its way again into her blood. After all, she was young, the music was sweet, her pulses were throbbing to the tune of this new life. She drank her wine and laughed, her head beating time to the music.
“We have been sad long enough,” she declared. “You and I, my dear serious brother, will embark in earnest now upon the paths of frivolity. Tell me, how did things go to-day?”
It flashed into his mind that he had great news, but that it was not for her. About that matter there was still doubt in his mind, but he could not speak of it.