"Grace!" gasped the former, staggering back as if from the effect of a mighty blow. Through his dizzy brain an instant later shot the necessity for action of some kind. There stood Grace, swaying before him, ready to fall. She loved him! He must clasp her to his heart as if he loved her. This feeble impulse forced him forward, his arms extended. "Don't be afraid, dear. I am not a ghost!"
Veath dropped into a chair near the window, and closed his eyes, his ears, his heart.
"Oh, Hugh, Hugh," the girl moaned, putting her hands over her face, even as he clasped her awkwardly, half-heartedly in his arms. He was saying distressedly to himself: "She loves me! I cannot break her heart!"
Neither moved for a full minute, and then Hugh drew her hands from her eyes, his heart full of pity.
"Grace, look at me," he said. "Are you happy?"
Their eyes met and there was no immediate answer. What each saw in the eyes of the other was strange and puzzling. She saw something like hopeless dread, struggling to suppress itself beneath a glassy film; he saw pitiful fear, sorrow, shame, everything but the glad lovelight he had expected. If their hearts had been cold before, they were freezing now.
"Happy?" she managed to articulate. "Happy?"
"Yes, happy," he repeated as witlessly.
"Don't look at me, Hugh. Don't! I cannot bear it," she wailed frantically, again placing her hands over her eyes. His arms dropped from their unwilling position and he gasped in amazement.
"What is it, Grace? What is the matter? What is it, Veath?" he gasped. She sank to her knees on the floor and sobbed.