She stood very still in the sunlight, her pretty head bent down, her hands slowly moving over the knob of the dainty sunshade she carried, a little smile lurking about the corners of her mouth; her eyes fixed on the faded colours of the Turkey carpet.
"I think—I should like—to be here for the burning of the boats," she said. "It sounds so—subversive—so final."
"It is subversive—it is final," was the short reply, and a flame of anger against her shot up within him. "Why did she come here to torture him? What had possessed her to come and stand here in his room, in the sunlight, stand here amongst all his most cherished belongings, just as in some of his mad dreams, he had pictured she might stand—looking so fair, so young, so sweet? Why had she done it? It was cruel, not just to a man who was trying to follow his code of honour, to its bitterest consequences." So his thoughts ran, whilst Cicely still stood there, moving her hands over the knob of her sunshade, the little smile still hovering upon her lips.
"I wonder," she said slowly, after a moment's silence—and Fergusson, watching her intently, saw that a deeper colour crept into her face—"I wonder—whether—the burning—is—really necessary?"
"Quite necessary." His tone was abrupt to the point of rudeness. "I have made up my mind."
"And—you—never—change—your mind?" She shot one swift glance at him from her pretty eyes, lowering them again instantly, whilst her hands moved more nervously, and her voice shook.
"Not when I am sure I am acting rightly," he answered. "And in this case I have no doubts."
She was silent again, for what seemed to the man who watched her many, many minutes, though only a few seconds had ticked by, before she said gently—
"I wonder—why you—are so very sure?"
"Because there is no room for doubt," was the terse response, and again there was silence, until Cicely said softly—