"Yes, at once."
He turned to the door. It opened and closed, and Mariana came towards him.
She came like a ghost, pale and still as he had seen her in his memory, with a veil of snow clinging to her coat and to the feathers in her hat. Her eyes alone were aflame.
He drew back and looked at her.
"You?" he said.
She was silent, holding out her gloved hand with an impulsive gesture. He did not take it. He had made a sudden clutch at self-control, and he clung to it desperately.
"Can I do anything for you?" he asked, and his voice rang hollow and without inflection.
She still held out her hand. Flecks of snow lay on her loosened hair, and the snow was hardly whiter than her face.
"You must speak to me," she said. "You promised to come, and I waited—and waited."
"I was busy," he returned, in the same voice.