She walked over to the fireplace and saw reflected in the mirror over the mantel-piece, a very lovely, but a very white, face. She did not notice the loveliness, but she marked the pallor. It was not reassuring.
She tried to put another log on to the fire, but failed to grip it firmly with the little brass tongs, and it fell upon the rug. At that moment she heard the sharp trot of the horses coming up the last sweep of the park drive.
She flung the log on to the fire with her fingers, flew to the door and set it open; then returned to the table and stood leaning against it, her hands behind her, gripping the edge, her eyes upon the doorway. Ronnie would have to walk the whole length of the room to reach her. Thus she would see him—see the love in his eyes—before her own were hidden.
She heard Simpkins cross the hall and open the door.
The next moment the horses' hoofs pounded up the drive, and she heard the crunch of the wheels coming to a standstill on the wet gravel.
A murmur from Simpkins, then Ronnie's gay, joyous voice, as he entered the house.
"In the sitting-room? Oh, thanks! Yes, take my coat. No, not this. I will put it down myself."
Then his footstep crossing the hall.
Then—Ronnie filled the doorway; tall, bronzed, radiant as ever! She had forgotten how beautiful he was. And—yes—the love in his eyes was just as she had known it would be—eager, glowing.
She never knew how he reached her; but she let go the table and held out her arms. In a moment he was in them, and his were flung around her. His lips sought hers, but her face was hidden on his breast. She felt his kisses in her hair.