But she stood where she was, looking at him
with large, tragic eyes; laid down a leather despatch-case she was carrying, and seized the edge of the table as if for support.
"I'd rather not sit down yet," she said. "Perhaps when you've heard what I've got to tell you, you'll never want me to sit down in your house again ... and yet ... I did pray so you'd be here ... I knew it was most unlikely ... but I did pray so ... And you are here."
Anthony was puzzled. Meg was not given to making scenes or going into heroics.
It was evident that something had happened to shake her out of her usual almost cynical calm.
"You'd be much better to sit down," he said, soothingly. "You see, if you stand, so must I, and it's such an uncomfortable way of talking."
She pulled out a chair and sat down at the table, took off her gloves, and two absurd small thumbs appeared above its edge, the knuckles white and tense with the strength of her grip.
Anthony seated himself in a deep chair beside the fireplace. He was in shadow. Meg faced the light, and he was shocked at the appearance of the little smitten face.
"Now tell me," he said gently, "just as little or as much as you like."
"This morning," she said hoarsely, "I ran away with a man ... in a motor-car."