She stood at the far end of the drawing-room.
When he entered she was leaning against the mantelpiece, looking down into the fire.
She turned, still gripping the marble edge with her left hand.
She wore a gown of trailing black velvet and stood on a white Angora rug.
Miles of rose carpet lay between him and the fireplace.
He seemed to be walking uphill, as he came toward her.
When he reached the rug at last, he and she seemed to be standing together on the summit of a delectable mountain. His mind still ran on his unsuitable attire, but he forgot the sentence he had prepared.
“I couldn’t,” was his lame apology.
She looked at him, and smiled. “You—wouldn’t,” she said.
There was such complete understanding in the grave regard of her kind eyes, in the low tones of her voice, so sweet and full of music.