Jerry opened the gate.
“Can I come up?” he said in the lowest tone that would reach her ear. “I hate to think of you all by yourself up there, and Rosamund gone.”
June looked at him and murmured an affirmative that he could not have heard, but he put his foot on the lowest step. She dropped her eyes to her hands resting on the balustrade, while the beating of her heart increased with his ascending footfall. When he had reached her side she was trembling. In those few sentences from the bottom of the stairs he seemed suddenly to have obliterated the past year. The words were ordinary enough, but his eyes, his tone, his manner as he now stood beside her, were those of the old Jerry, before Mercedes had stolen him away.
She raised her eyes to his and immediately dropped them. The soft scrutiny of his gaze—the privileged gaze that travels over and dwells on a loved face, with no one to challenge its right—increased her flushed distress. Jerry, too, was moved. For both of them the moment was fraught with danger, and he knew it better than she.
“You’re all tired out,” he said, with his tender tone slightly hoarse. “Let’s go in and sit down.”
She led the way through the hall, now beginning to grow dim with the first evening shadows, into the long, bare parlor. There was a sofa drawn up against the wall and on this she sat, while Jerry placed a small gilded chair close in front of her.
“How deserted it looks!” he said, gazing about the room. “I suppose everybody was here? I saw a perfect mob of people going down to the station.”
“Yes, everybody went, even the servants. They stole away without telling me. They didn’t even wait to clear the things off the table. That’s why it’s so quiet.”
Both spoke rapidly to hide their agitation. The woman’s was more apparent than the man’s. She kept her eyes down and Jerry watched her as she spoke. It was the first time for over a year that he had had a chance to scrutinize her at will. She had changed greatly. Her freshness was gone, her face looked smaller than ever and to-day was almost haggard. But Jerry had had his fill of beauty. She loved him still, and she was the one woman of the three he had loved. Ever since Mercedes had left him he had been telling himself this, and the thought had been taking fiery possession of him, growing more dominant each day.
“Rosamund’s made a fine marriage, hasn’t she?” he went on, with more fluency. “Some day she’ll be Lady Rosamund, and won’t she be a stunning Lady Rosamund? She’s made for it. Do you remember the time when I was up at Foleys and you had the garden there? What a lot has happened in these last four years.”