Emma chafed her cold hand softly.
'It is hard; I understand it,' she murmured. 'And is your Sunday visit to us in the list of offences?'
'An item.'
'You gave me a happy day.'
'Then it counts for me in heaven.'
'He set spies on you?'
'So we may presume.'
Emma went through a sphere of tenuious reflections in a flash.
'He will rue it. Perhaps now . . . he may now be regretting his wretched frenzy. And Tony could pardon; she has the power of pardoning in her heart.'
'Oh! certainly, dear. But tell me why it is you speak to-night rather unlike the sedate, philosophical Emma; in a tone-well, tolerably sentimental?'