The voice of the good Francine put to flight the joyous procession. Mark rose up, flung away the half-smoked cigarette, and saw Betty advancing into the studio. Francine hobbled away. She knew that Betty had married Mark's brother.
"Betty!"
"Mark!"
"Don't go," said Mark, as she paused irresolute. "Pynsent is painting you, I suppose. He will be here in a minute. I'll go."
"You never wrote," she faltered.
"Was it likely? How is the boy?"
"I expected a word of—forgiveness. The boy is very well."
"Is he like you?"
"Everybody says so."
He was silent and very pale, whereas Betty's face was suffused with delicate colour. He was trying to resist an overmastering impulse to take her in his arms, when he heard Pynsent's step, and a moment afterwards his clear incisive voice.