He drew back and she leaned upon the mantel, looking into the low mirror, which reflected her haggard eyes between two gilded urns.
"I was very ill," she went on. "It has left me so weak, and I—I am looking so badly."
"Mariana!"
She turned towards him, her face white, the lace on her breast fluttering as if from a rising wind.
"Mariana!" he said, again.
He was gazing at her with burning eyes. His hands were clinched at his sides, and the veins on his temples swelled like blue cords.
Then his look met hers and held it, and the desire in their eyes leaped out and closed together, drawing them slowly to each other.
Still they were silent, he standing straight and white in the centre of the room, she shrinking back against the mantel.
Suddenly he reached out.
"Mariana!"