Presently the door opened, and Cayley entered. She started to her feet with a stifled, bitter cry: “Oh, Harry!”
He hurried to her with arms outstretched, for she swayed; but she straightway recovered herself, and, leaning against a chair, steadied to his look.
“Why have you come here?” she whispered. “To say good-bye for always,” was his reply.
“And why—for always?” She was very white and quiet.
“Because we are not likely ever to meet again.”
“Where are you going?” she anxiously asked. “God knows!”
Strange sensations were working in her. What would be the end of this? Her husband, knowing all, had permitted this man to come to her alone. She had loved him for years; though he had deserted her years ago, she loved him still—did she love him still?
“Will you not sit down?” she said with mechanical courtesy.
A stranger would not have thought from their manner that there were lives at stake. They both sat, he playing with the leaves of an orchid, she opening and shutting her fan absently. But she was so cold she could hardly speak. Her heart seemed to stand still.
“How has the world used you since we met last?” she tried to say neutrally.