Agatha sank into a seat by the open window, for she felt physically worn out, and before her there was a task from which she shrank.
“Gregory,” she began, “I feel that we have come near making what might prove to be a horrible mistake.”
“We?” repeated Hawtrey, while the blood rose into his weather-darkened face. “That means both of us.”
“Yes,” asserted Agatha, with a steadiness that cost her an effort.
Hawtrey went a step nearer to her. “Do you want me to admit that I’ve made a mistake.”
“Are you quite sure you haven’t?”
She flung the question at him sharply with tense apprehension, for, after all, if Gregory was sure of himself, there was only one course open to her. He leaned upon the table, gazing at her, and as he studied her face his indignation melted, and doubts crept into his mind.
She looked weary, and grave, almost haggard, and it was a fresh, light-hearted girl with whom he had fallen in love in England. The mark of the last two years of struggle was plain on her. He tried to realize what he had looked for when he had asked her to marry him, and could not get a clear conception of his vision. In the back of his mind was a half-formulated idea that he had dreamed of a cheerful companion, somebody to amuse him. She scarcely seemed likely to be entertaining now.
Gregory was not a man who could face a crisis collectedly, and his thoughts became confused until one idea emerged from them. He had pledged himself to her, and the fact laid a certain obligation upon him. It was his part to overrule any fancies she might be disposed to indulge in.
“Well,” he said stoutly, “I’m not going to admit anything of that kind. The journey has been too much for you. You haven’t got over it yet.” He lowered his voice, and his face softened. “Aggy, dear, I’ve waited four years for you.”