"Mr. Vere-Manville, I beg you will leave us awhile!"
Even as she spoke, Anthony bowed, strode to the door and was gone before I could stay him.
"Peregrine?"
One word, softly uttered, yet in it a world of pleading—reproach and troubled wonderment, insomuch that, remembering that accursed black-bodied chaise, the ring and gossamer veil, my sullen resentment waxed to bitter anger, the whole thing seemed so utterly nauseous.
Evening was falling and from one of the trees in the orchard a blackbird was calling to his mate, soft and sweetly plaintive, and never, to the end of my days, may I hear such without recalling all the agony of this hour.
We stood very silent, looking upon each other, while the blackbird piped in the orchard below; and now I trembled no more, for my anger was passed and in its stead was a cold and purposeful determination.
"Are you better, Peregrine?" she questioned at last. "More yourself?"
"Thank you, yes."
When next she spoke her voice faltered a little, though her glance never wavered.
"Peregrine, why—why did you—drive me away? Why refuse to see me?"