"What is your name?" he asked, with unstrung joints.
"I am Myron Holder," she said, and looked at him.
Her lips did not quiver. Her cheeks did not flush. Her eyes did not falter. All the majesty of a wronged womanhood shone upon her brow. Her glance spoke of a dignity far beyond the gift of man, above the world's honor—a dignity bought at a terrible price and sealed with a terrible seal of loneliness and separation.
"Ah!" he said, and leaned upon the table at his side, mentally acknowledging the strength of her presence. "I am Henry Willis," he said. "Did you know me?"
"I recognized you when I came into the room," she answered, in a monotonous tone.
There was a pause. Her eyes rested upon him unwaveringly, and sent from their depths intolerable meanings of contempt and righteous indignation and hopeless reproach.
He came a step nearer.
"Let me—" he began. She stepped back—her nostrils dilated.
"Would you be good enough to tell me my duties?" she said.
"Tell me how you came here."