"You are the lady that came once in that terrible storm," she said.
"Yes, I am the one."
"Would you like a glass of water—or wine?"
Mariana looked up, in the hope of dismissing her.
"I should like some water, please," she said, and as Agnes went into the dining-room she looked about the luxurious study with passionate eyes.
It was so different from the one at The Gotham, that comfortless square of uncarpeted floor, with the pine book-shelves and the skull and cross-bones above the mantel.
The desk, with its hand-carving of old mahogany, recalled to her the one that he had used when she had first known him, with its green baize cover splotched with ink.
The swing of the rich curtains, the warmth of the Turkish rugs, the portraits in their massive frames, jarred her vibrant emotions. How could he pass from this to the farm in the South—to the old, old fight with poverty and the drama of self-denial? Would she not fail him again, as she had failed him once before? Would she not shatter his happiness in a second chance, as she had shattered it in the first?
The tears sprang to her eyes and scorched her lids. She rose hastily from her chair.
When the servant returned with the glass of water she drank a few swallows. "Thank you," she said, gently. "I will go now. Perhaps I will come again to-morrow."