When Miltoun's shadow blotted the light by which she was seeing so little, she gave a slight start, and got up. But she neither went towards him, nor spoke. And he, without a word, came in and stood by the hearth, looking down at the empty grate. A tortoise-shell cat which had been watching swallows, disturbed by his entrance, withdrew from the window beneath a chair.
This silence, in which the question of their future lives was to be decided, seemed to both interminable; yet, neither could end it.
At last, touching his sleeve, she said: “You're wet!”
Miltoun shivered at that timid sign of possession. And they again stood in silence broken only by the sound of the cat licking its paws.
But her faculty for dumbness was stronger than his, and—he had to speak first.
“Forgive me for coming; something must be settled. This—rumour——”
“Oh! that!” she said. “Is there anything I can do to stop the harm to you?”
It was the turn of Miltoun's lips to curl. “God! no; let them talk!”
Their eyes had come together now, and, once together, seemed unable to part.
Mrs. Noel said at last: