Clodagh put her hand across her eyes.
"Thank God!" she said. "If you had asked me one more question I couldn't have borne it. Send him away, and then come back."
In silence Nance left the room. Five minutes passed—ten minutes; then Clodagh's straining ears caught the closing of the outer door, and her hand dropped to her side in a gesture of excessive relief.
"Thank God!" she said again.
When Nance re-entered, she was still standing in the middle of the room, her face white and tear-stained, her figure braced.
"Nance," she said, almost before the door had closed upon her sister, "I am going to tell you things I have never told you before. I feel I shall go mad to-night, if I don't tell some one. Don't ask me any questions. Just listen and—if you can—love me!"
Nance paused just inside the door. Her own face looked pale above the shimmering blue and silver of her evening dress; her dark blue eyes were full of a peculiarly tender light.
"I don't love you, Clo," she said below her breath. "I adore you. Tell me whatever you like."
Clodagh threw out her hands despairingly.
"I'm not worth love like that," she cried. "You'll know it when I've finished. Do you remember long ago, Nance, when James and I went to Venice? Do you remember my letters from Venice?"