“You’re not pleased to see me, are you, Harry? You never wanted to see me again?”
He did not answer.
“Of course—how could you be?” she murmured to herself, gazing once more into the fire. “You never could forgive—never!”
He forced himself to a politeness he felt to be magnanimous.
“I don’t want to dwell on past injuries, Christine,” he said, coldly. “I should be pleased to know that what you did brought happiness.”
“Happiness!” she repeated, almost inaudibly, in ironic mockery, her gaze still fixed upon the fire.
Suddenly she looked round to him.
“Harry!” she said, impulsively. “Harry!” Her eyes went beyond him for a moment to the litter of papers on his desk, returned to him. “Harry! I know I am disturbing you”—the old pathetic smile came into her face—“but I want to ask you a favour—” she hesitated, as though her courage failed her—“the favour for which I came.”
He hardened himself for a refusal.
“What is it?” he asked.