They had to traverse the length of a large double drawing-room before the dining-room was reached. And during that passage he found opportunity for a whispered word or two. As they moved forward he avoided looking at Clodagh; but his arm slightly and unmistakably pressed hers.
"Am I not forgiving—to be so glad to see you?" he murmured in his thin, cold voice. "I waited on the terrace until twelve o'clock, that night in Venice."
Involuntarily her face flushed. His voice was as potent as ever to express infinitely more than the words it uttered.
"I—I wish to forget Venice," she said.
He stole a swift glance at her.
"Then shall we make a compact? Shall we forget it jointly?"
She said nothing.
Again, almost imperceptibly, his arm pressed hers.
"Why try to ignore me? I am in your life."
The words were few and very simple: so simple and so few that they conveyed a peculiar impression of power—of weight.