Then everything went black before his eyes.
The shock passed, leaving behind an ecstasy. He felt that he was dreaming and would awake to a world of cold, deadly fact at any moment. He saw her hanging back, irresolute, as if she doubted his feelings after all these years. And, a second later, he knew himself holding her hands, tumbling out broken, incoherent words, leaving no time for her breathless, half-crying, half-laughing answers, and at last, taking her in his arms, kissing her desperately, saying over and over again:
"Frances! ... Frances!"
While she answered, as he allowed her, with: "Hector! Oh, Hector! My dear, darling.... Hector——?"
Then—everything else forgotten—except the marvellous, wonderful fact that she was with him—he began, turning her face to the light, holding her hands in a fevered clutch:
"But Frances.... Why are you here? When did you get here? Frances, I don't understand.... This is too miraculous——"
"Didn't you get my letter?"
"Your letter—when?"
"Hector, I wrote you not long ago, telling you I was on my way up here, and to write and tell me not to if you—if you'd forgotten. And, as you didn't answer——"
"I never had it. Our mails are uncertain. Several have been lost—shipwreck and so on. Frances, this is a surprise.... I can't speak...."