Their voices answered each other, dull and colourless in the gloom, and for some moments neither spoke. Helen went to the window and leaned upon the broad marble sill, breathing the evening air from the lake, and Wimpole followed her. The electric lamps were lighted in the street, glaring coldly out of the grey dusk, and many people were moving slowly along the pavement below, in little parties, some gay, some silent.
"That is why I did not let you come up," said Helen, after a long time. "But now--since you know--" She stopped, still hesitating, and he tried to see her expression, but there was not enough light.
"Yes?" he said, with a question, not pressing her, but waiting.
"Since you know," she answered at last, "you can guess the rest."
A spasm of pain half choked her, and Wimpole put out his hand to lay it gently upon her arm, but drew it back again. He had never done even that much in all those years, and he would not do it now.
"I will keep him from you," he said again.
"No. You must not do that." Her voice was steady again. "He will not come to me against my will."
Wimpole turned sharply as he leaned on the window-sill beside her, for he did not understand.
"You cannot possibly be thinking of writing to him, of letting him come back?"
"Yes," she said. "That is what I am thinking of doing."