"Dr. Anstice"—Iris' voice was very low—"shall I disturb you if I come and sit beside you for a little while? I—I feel rather—lonely—sitting over there."
Anstice had turned round sharply as she began to speak and his heart yearned over her pitifully as he noted the pallor of her cheeks, the forlorn look in her grey eyes.
"Of course you won't disturb me." He dared not speak so emphatically as he wished. "I shall be only too glad if you will come and sit here"—he arranged the pile of rugs by him as he spoke—"only, if danger arises, you will keep out of harm's way, won't you?"
"Yes." She said no more for a moment; but her assent satisfied him, and he turned back to the window with a sudden feeling of joy at her proximity which would not be repressed.
Presently he heard her low voice once more.
"Dr. Anstice, when you told me your story—long ago—why didn't you tell me the name of the man to whom that poor girl was engaged? Didn't you want me to know she was to have married—Bruce?" Her voice sank on the last word.
For an instant Anstice kept silence, uncertain how to answer her. Then, seeing she was waiting for his reply, he made an effort and spoke.
"Mrs. Cheniston, to be honest, I don't know why I did not tell you. But"—he seized the opportunity for a question on his own account—"will you tell me how you know, now? Did—did your husband tell you?"
"No." Her eyes met his frankly and he knew she was speaking the truth. "I learned the fact for certain by accident three days ago, when Bruce was delirious. Of course I had wondered—sometimes"—said Iris honestly—"but I never liked to ask. And after all it made no difference."
"No." He sighed. "It made no difference. But I am glad you know—now."