His voice said more than he intended, more than he had known he felt, for he had imagined himself cool as a frosty morning. But in the moment of her entering his glance had devoured her, he saw her grave, not a smile curving her lips, and her dark eyes weighted with what looked like sorrow. He told himself that to see her otherwise would have killed his love; the pictures of her which he had summoned up, amusing herself on board Lord Milborough’s yacht, he had made perhaps purposely repugnant, calling on them as part of his defences. After all, he perceived that he had wronged her, his accusation of want of sympathy was cruelly unjust, and he flung shame on himself for having encouraged it. Under whatever circumstances they were to meet, down with pretences! She sat throned in his heart.
She hesitated for a moment before she spoke. “Why did you leave us, Mr Wareham?”
“It seemed best. Besides, my leaving could have had no ill effect on poor Hugh. You did all that was possible for him.”
Would she sit down? He did not venture to ask her, but she drew a chair into the corner, and for the first time smiled, perhaps at a flickering idea that she was shocking the traditions of Mrs Grundy. She said, alluding to this—
“They are all up-stairs, and chattering so hard that there would be no getting in a word. I wanted to speak to you in quiet. You have been with him?”
“As long as they would let me.”
“Well?”
“He is very ill.”
“Oh, poor fellow, poor fellow, I know it! I believe I could soothe him, but those nurses are mechanically scrupulous in carrying out whatever idea has been worked into their heads, and they will not let me go near him. If at any time you think it would be well, promise to send for me.”
Her eyes pleaded. Wareham promised, remembering that a condition guarded the pledge.