"Well?" he said gently.
"I didn't think you would do that," she murmured in confusion. "I didn't think you would ever trust any of us again."
"You think I may regret it?" he said.
She turned her face to the window and made no answer.
He sat beside her for a little longer in silence, then rose, bundled up a travelling-rug to form a cushion, and arranged it in her corner. "Lean against that," he said kindly. "I know you can sleep if you don't try not to."
She thanked him with trembling lips, and as he turned away she caught his hand for a moment and held it to her cheek.
He withdrew it at once though with absolute gentleness. He did not speak a word.
Thereafter she closed her eyes and tried to sleep, but the drumming of the train was in her ears perpetually, and she could not forget it. Present also was the consciousness of her husband's quiet watchfulness. Though he held aloof from her, his care surrounded her unceasingly. Not once had she felt it relax since she had placed herself in his charge. Did he guess? she asked herself, and trembled inwardly. He was being very kind to her in a distant, measured fashion. Was that the reason for it? Could it be?
Her thoughts went back to her talk with her cousin, to the bitter words she had uttered. Would he really care if she were to die? Would he? Would he? She longed to know.
But of course he would not, or he could not be so cold. For Bertrand's sake he had come to fetch her. He had evidently forgiven Bertrand just as he had forgiven Rupert. He forgave everybody but her, she thought to herself forlornly. For his wife alone he could not make allowances.