At this speech Mrs. Darche rose. Standing quite still for a moment, she looked quietly into his uncertain eyes. He was evidently in the worst of humours, and quite unable to control himself, even had he wished to do so. She felt that it would be safer to leave him, for her own temper was overwrought and ready to break out. She turned towards the door. Then he called her back.
"I say, Marion!"
"Well."
"What are you making such a fuss about?"
"Have I said anything?"
"No, not much, but you have a particularly uncomfortable way of letting one see what you would like to say."
"Is that why you called me back?" asked Mrs. Darche on the point of turning away again.
"I suppose so. It certainly was not for the pleasure of prolonging this delightful interview."
Once more she moved in the direction of the door. Then something seemed to tighten about her heart, something long forgotten, and which, if she tried to understand it at all, she thought was pity. It was nothing—only a dead love turning in its grave. But it hurt her, and she stopped and looked back. John Darche was leaning against the high mantlepiece, shading his eyes from the fire with his small, pointed white hand. She came and stood beside him.
"John," she said gently, "I want to speak to you seriously. I am very sorry if I was hasty just now. Please forget it."