Overwhelmed and put to shame by her forgiveness and her happiness, he stood before her in silence.
What could he have said to her that would not have sounded either coarse or trivial?
And she demanded neither explanation nor excuse.
He was here—that was enough for her.
As he let his glance rest upon her, he confessed that his mental image of her fell short of the present reality.
She had grown in soul and stature. Her features bore signs of power and restraint, and of a strong inner tension. Her eyes sought him with a steady light; in her bosom battled the pent-up joy.
She asked him to be seated. "In that corner," she said, and led him to a tiny sofa covered with glittering, light-green silk, above which hung a withered palm-leaf fan.
"I have sat there so often," she went on, "so often, and have thought of you, always—always. You'll drink tea, won't you?"
He was about to refuse, but she interrupted him.
"Oh, but you must, you must. You can't refuse! It has been my dream all this time to drink tea with you here just once—just once. To serve you on this little table and hand you the basket with cakes! Do you see this little lacquer table, with the lovely birds of inlaid mother-of-pearl? I had that given to me last Christmas for the especial purpose of serving you tea on it. For I said to myself: 'He is accustomed to the highest elegance.' And you are here and are going to refuse? No, no, that's impossible. I couldn't bear that."