“Is Miss Ley at home?”
The maid, a rosy-cheeked damsel with a fresh and wholesome face, answered, “Yes, sir.”
He felt dismay and intense relief at the same moment. He pulled himself together with an effort, and followed her.
“What name, sir?”
“Legard.”
The door was thrown open, and he heard his name pronounced into a room which he could scarcely see from a feeling of giddiness that came over him. The door closed behind. There was a faint scent of violets, and he was conscious of the rustle of a skirt. He stood within the room twisting his moustache, and staring about him with uncertain eyes. Jocelyn had risen from a chair near the window. He took a step forward and stopped. Her face was white, then crimson, then white again; her hands gripped the back of the chair from which she had risen. Neither offered to move, or to speak; they stood still, and looked fixedly at each other, an unsparing space of conventional carpet between them.
After the first sign of emotion, Jocelyn’s face wore a mask of discouragement. It showed dark and mysterious against the bright sunlight behind her, and reproach seemed to be looking out of her eyes. Giles, clutching the fold of his coat across his chest, gazed at her with a countenance from which hunger had suddenly driven every other emotion.
Jocelyn spoke, and her voice sounded dull and expressionless.
“Why?” she said. “What was the good?”