"Come!" cried Huntter, in a tone of joy; "Come!" And in burst Margaret Moffatt!
She did not notice the rigid figure by the bowl of flowers; her radiant face was fixed upon Huntter, and she ran toward him with outstretched arms.
"My beloved!" she whispered. "Oh! my dear, my dear! How ill you have been! They did not tell me. I shall never forgive them. When did you get back from Bermuda?"
Priscilla slipped from the room and closed the door noiselessly behind her, but not before she had seen Margaret Moffatt sink into Huntter's arms; not before she heard the sigh of perfect content that escaped her.
Alone in the anteroom, the hideous truth flayed Priscilla into suffering and clear vision.
"What shall I do?" she moaned, clasping her hands and swaying back and forth. All the burden and responsibility of the world seemed cast upon her. Then reason asserted itself.
"He will tell her! He is telling her now! Killing her love—killing her! Oh, my God!"
Then she shrank from the thought that she would, in a few moments, have to face her friend! How could she, when she remembered that holy night of confession in the little Swiss village? Again she moaned, "Oh! my God!" But she was spared that scene. Moments, though they seemed ages, passed, and then Huntter called:
"Miss Glynn!"
She hardly recognized his voice. It was—triumphant, thrilling. It rang boldly, commandingly. When she entered, Huntter was alone. Gone was the guest; gone the mass of golden roses. Huntter turned a face glowing and confident to her.