Now greatly alarmed, she caught his hand in both of hers.
"You must tell me everything, Harry. I don't care what it is—I—I've got to know. You told me that you'd tell me to-day—to-night, and now you must keep your promise. I've tried so hard not to worry and—and when you didn't come back to me last night, I—I was really frightened——"
"Were you?" he said, with a frown. "I was all right."
"I'm glad. But it was cruel of you not to send me a message."
"I couldn't. But I'm here now, Moira. So there's no need worrying any more."
He put his hand over hers and leaned toward her. His words, which last night would have given her happiness, seemed somehow to mean nothing to her to-night. For his very presence in this condition was a threat against her peace of mind. And his fingers might have been wax for all that their touch meant to her.
"You—you're trying to make things seem better than they are," she said steadily, wondering at her own words. "I—I'm not easily deceived. Last night I knew that something had come between us. I know now that it's still between us, Harry, whatever you say."
He turned away toward the glass at his elbow,
"No," he murmured, "that difficulty—has been removed."
He couldn't repress the smile of triumph as he took his drink, and she saw it. It wasn't a pleasant smile.