She wrenched herself from his hands. She had seen what he had not seen—Wolff standing in the open doorway, watching them with a curiously pale, grave face. Had he heard, and if he had heard, had he understood? Nora could not tell. Furious with Miles and with herself, she ran to him and put her arms about his neck.
"Oh, how glad I am that you have come!" she cried incoherently. "You are just in time for supper. How did you manage to get away so early?"
He kissed her upturned face. Lips and hands were icy.
"I got special leave," he said. "I thought"—a forced lightness struggled through his gravity—"I thought it was not good manners to desert my own table on the first evening. I am glad that I managed—to come in time. I shall be ready in a minute."
He turned and went into his dressing-room, giving neither time to answer. Nora stared blankly after him. She felt as though she had allowed some one to strike him across the face without protest, and that he had gone away, not angrily, but wounded—perhaps beyond her powers of healing.
"What a pity!" she heard Miles say behind her. "I had looked forward to our evening together."
Nora turned. In her anger and desperation, she could scarcely keep her voice under control.
"Do not talk like that, Miles," she said. "What you think of Wolff does not matter. I am his wife, and this is his home. Remember that!"
Miles put his hand in his pocket and smiled. His smile suggested a perfect understanding.
"I have said what I want to say," he observed. "I shall not need to say it again."