“Richard Linnell!” she said, as if wondering at his presence.
“Yes, Richard Linnell,” he cried, panting with emotion. “Claire, my love, has it come to this?”
She did not shrink from him as he drew her closely to his side, and his arm clasped her waist, but gazed up at him in the same half-wondering way.
“Why are you here?” he said hoarsely. “Surely you were not thinking—oh, it is impossible.”
Still she did not answer, but in a slow, dull way extricated herself from his grasp, and pressed her hands over her face, covering her eyes for a few moments till she felt his touch as he laid his hand upon her arm.
“Claire,” he whispered, “you do not speak to me. Why do you not say something to drive away these horrible thoughts. You here—at this hour—alone? Is it my fate to be always misunderstanding you?”
She shuddered slightly, as if his words were reviving memories of other meetings, and now she spoke.
“I don’t know why I am here,” she said in a dazed, helpless way. “I have had so much trouble. I was tired!”
“Trouble!” he whispered. “Claire dearest, if you only knew how I loved you. Let me share the trouble—help you through everything.”
“Hush! Don’t speak to me like that, Richard Linnell,” she said slowly, as if she had to think deeply before she uttered a word. “I cannot talk to you now. My head!”