She steadied herself for a moment against the corner of a heavy table; and then the drawing-room door, which had been open, was shut, and Montalto was in the room, grey and hollow-eyed, coming towards her with thin hands outstretched in greeting. By a miracle of strength she went forward and met them with her own; met his eyes, and let him kiss her. She sank into a chair then, and he was close beside her, trying to speak in his old formal way, though he could hardly control his voice.
He seemed dreadfully changed, and when she saw him clearly a sharp pang of pity wrung her heart. His hair and pointed beard were quite grey, his colourless cheeks were painfully thin, and his hollow eyes burned with a feverish fire; he stopped speaking suddenly, in the middle of a sentence, as if he were paralysed, and his lips were parched, but his burning gaze did not waver from her face. She was a little frightened.
‘You are ill!’ she cried. ‘Let me get you something!’
She half rose, but his thin hand caught her and held her back.
‘No,’ he said hoarsely, ‘I am not ill. It is only that—that I have not—seen you—for so long!’
The words came in gasps; the last ones broke out in a frantic sob. She was moved, and willing to be touched, and though she had felt the old physical repulsion for him again the instant he came near her, she took one of his hands now and held it on her knees and stroked it kindly.
‘Diego!’
She did not know what to say, so she pronounced his name as softly and as affectionately as she could. But she had not spoken yet, and at the sound of her sweet voice the man broke down completely.
‘Oh, Maria, Maria!’ he moaned, drawing her hand to his chest and rocking himself a little. ‘It was all a dreadful dream—and I have got you back again—Maria——’