“Marion,” he said, “say it all, and let me have it over. Say what you like, and I’ll not whimper. I’ll face it. But I want to see my child.”
She was sorry for him. She had really wanted to see how much he was capable of feeling in the matter.
“Wait here, Frank,” she said. “That will be best; and I will bring your wife to you.”
He said nothing, but assented with a motion of the hand, and she left him where he was. He braced himself for the interview. Assuredly a man loses something of natural courage and self-confidence when he has done a thing of which he should be, and is, ashamed.
It seemed a long time (it was in reality but a couple of minutes) before the door opened again, and Marion said: “Frank, your wife!” and then retreated.
The door closed, leaving a stately figure standing just inside it. The figure did not move forwards, but stood there, full of life and fine excitement, but very still also.
Frank Armour was confounded. He came forwards slowly, looking hard. Was this distinguished, handsome, reproachful woman his wife—Lali, the Indian girl, whom he had married in a fit of pique and brandy? He could hardly believe his eyes; and yet hers looked out at him with something that he remembered too, together with something which he did not remember, making him uneasy. Clearly, his great mistake had turned from ashes into fruit. “Lali!” he said, and held out his hand.
She reached out hers courteously, but her fingers gave him no response.
“We have many things to say to each other,” she said, “but they cannot be said now. I shall be missed from the ballroom.”
“Missed from the ballroom!” He almost laughed to think how strange this sounded in his ears. As if interpreting his thought, she added: “You see, it is our last affair of the season, and we are all anxious to do our duty perfectly. Will you go down with me? We can talk afterwards.”