He was coming across the room towards her.... Cleone gripped her hands.
"Cleone ... dearest!"
A heartbroken sob betrayed her. Philip took her in his arms.
"My sweetheart! Crying? Oh no, no! There is naught now to distress you."
The feel of his arms about her was sheer bliss; their strength was like a haven of refuge. Yet Cleone tried to thrust him away.
"What—must you—think of me!" she sobbed.
He drew her closer, till her head rested against his shoulder.
"Why, that you are a dear, foolish, naughty little Cleone. Chérie, don't cry. It is only your Philip—your own Philip, who has always loved you, and only you. Look up, my darling, look up!"
Cleone gave way to the insistence of his arms.
"Oh, Philip—forgive me!" she wept. "I have—been mad!" She raised her head and Philips arms tightened still more. He bent over her and kissed her parted lips almost fiercely.