“Have you come here this morning?” I asked.
“Yes, it’s only thirty miles,” he answered, coolly. “I wanted to see you.”
I was silent for a few moments. This was news indeed. What might come of it I scarcely dared to think. A whole torrent of surmises came flooding in upon me.
“Where is she?” I asked.
“In London, I should think, by this time,” he answered.
I drew a long breath of relief. To be rid of her for a time would be happiness.
“I believe,” he continued, “that she intends to return to Paris.”
After all it was perhaps the best thing that could happen; if she had been in earnest—and I knew that she had been in earnest—she would hate England now. At any rate she would not want to come back again just yet. My face cleared. After all it was good news.
“She has gone—out of our lives, I hope,” he said, quietly, “and in her hysterics she left one little legacy behind for me—and that is hope. I know that I am not half good enough for you,” he said, with an odd little tremble in his tone, “but you have only seen the worst of me. Do you think that you could care for me a little? Would you try?”
Then when I should have been strong I was pitiably weak. I struggled for words in despair. He was so calm, so strong, so confident. How was I to stand against him?