"You came quickly," she said in a low tone.
Fenton had expected that the change in their positions would be reflected in her attitude, so he could scarcely credit it when, coming forward, she placed both her hands in his and looked up into his face with the same tenderness and infinite trust that she had shown when they parted.
"Olga!" he exclaimed, then stopped, finding no words to express his emotions.
"I received your letter last night," she went on in the same low tone. "I had already made up my mind, but your letter was a wonderful revelation. My dear, my dear, I never thought—I had not dared to think you loved me so!"
Fenton had not for a moment allowed his gaze to wander from her face. He noted with solicitude how wan and pale she was. The intensity of her grief showed in every line, but beneath it all was the light of a great resolution that almost transcended her sorrow.
"Why did you send for me?" he asked. "I didn't intend to see you again. I didn't want to make it—the inevitable—hard for you."
She nodded and pressed his hand gratefully.
"I understood your brave purpose," she said. "It spoke from every line of your letter. I read it many, many times and blessed you for it. But what you proposed is not necessary now."
Fenton did not understand. He was frankly puzzled at everything—her words, her attitude, even her dress. From the first moment that his eyes had rested upon her he had been aware of some subtle change. Too closely absorbed in his love and his loss for matters of detail to register on his mind, he had in a general way realised that there was something about her that was strangely different.
"What do you mean?" he asked.