Making a great effort, Giles mastered himself; he put his arms round her, and stood rocking himself to and fro gently, his face buried in her hair. There was no passion in his embrace, only pity, and gradually peace.
It was a long time before either spoke again.
“My darling, forgive me!” he said at last in a faint, husky whisper, barely heard in the moaning of the wind.
“Dear, there is nothing to forgive—it was my fault—I tempted you.”
Giles shuddered.
“No, no!” he said, and he pressed her convulsively in his arms.
The words came presently from him with an effort—
“Tell me, darling! Is it all pity you have for me now? Is there any love left?—tell me the truth,” but he could not look at her, he dreaded the answer too much.
Jocelyn drew herself gently away from him, till only the touch of his fingers rested on her arms.
“I don’t know,” she said; “it isn’t as it used to be—I can’t tell.”