“You should have let your friends––know,” she said at length.
He looked at her curiously, vivid memories of their last interview recurring to him. Indecisively she interlaced her fingers, and he, watching them, wondered why she had sent for him. Suddenly she rose, walked to the window, and stood, looking out. He, sitting in the dim light, in a maze of uncertainty, was vaguely conscious of her figure outlined against the brightness without; of the waving, yellow flowers of the vines on the veranda.
“It is long since we have met,” he said, awkwardly.
She did not answer. Had she heard? Yet he did not resent her silence. If he had ever felt anger for her it had all vanished now. He was only conscious of regarding her more attentively, as she still remained, gazing out into the sunlit garden.
“Much has happened since I saw you,” he continued.
She turned; her eyes were moist; her hand trembled a little against her dress, but she held her head proudly, as she had always done, and it was the aspect of this weakness set against strength that appealed swiftly to him, softening his heart so that he longed to spring to her side.
“Yes, much!” she replied.
Was her voice tremulous, or was it but the thrill of his own heart which made it seem so?
“You have been here long?” she asked, still holding back what was on her mind or blindly endeavoring to approach the subject.