With a furious effort he collected himself. He let her hands slip from his. "Come in here," he said, forcing his dry throat to speech by sheer strength of will. "You should have let me know."
She went in without a word, and came to a stand before the table that was littered with his work. She was agitated, he saw. Her hand was pressed against her heart, and she seemed to breathe with difficulty.
Instinctively he came to her aid with commonplace phrases—the first that occurred to him. "How did you come? But no matter! Tell me presently. You must have something to eat. You look dead beat. Sit down, won't—"
And there he stopped again, breaking off short to stare at her. In the lighted room she had turned to face him, and he saw that her hair was no longer golden but silvery white.
Seeing his look, she began to speak in hurried, uneven sentences. "I have been ill, you know. It—it was brain fever, Jim said. Hair—fair hair particularly—does go like that sometimes."
"You are well again?" he questioned.
"Oh, quite—quite." There was something almost feverish in the assertion; she was facing him with desperate resolution. "I have been well for a long time. Please don't send for anything. I dined at the dâk-bungalow an hour ago. I—I thought it best."
Her agitation was increasing. She panted between each sentence. Will turned aside, shut and bolted the window, and drew the blind. Then he went close to her; he laid a steady hand upon her.
"Sit down," he said, "and tell me what is the matter."
She sank down mutely. Her mouth was quivering; she sought to hide it from him with her hand.