She stood before them, a quivering smile on her lips. She seemed on the verge of tears; but after a silent moment she raised her eyes to look at them with a sublime and touching bravery.
"Can I come back?" she asked.
They were both speechless.
"I don’t want to explain," she said, in a trembling voice. "Not ever! But if I can come back, I’ll—go on—just the same."
Miss Sillon got up.
"Certainly!" she said pleasantly. "If you like, we’ll go on—in the old way. We’ll forget all this. Don’t you think so, Devery?"
"Of course!" said Devery.
But no matter how they tried, their cordiality was strained, their looks averted. They knew, all three of them, that it would be a long time before this thing could be forgotten. Half of the letters of "Angélique" had gone from the windows—and how much more had gone as well?
But at least their friendship endured. They neither questioned her nor blamed her; they simply took her back, as whole-heartedly as was possible to them. Whatever incredible and discreditable occurrence may have interrupted that dazzling wedding, they would not repudiate her.
She went to her cupboard, took out the box in which she had kept her odds and ends, and, sitting down at her old table, spread out the glittering, gay scraps before her.