"Yes."
"Come and sit beside me."
"Oh, I don't know whether I can," said John; "I've—I've got a letter to write." He was quick at inventing excuses.
"You can't care much for me, Bernard, if you bother to write a letter, after not seeing me for so long." She rose and came towards him. He felt foolish and awkward when she took his hand in hers, led him to the ottoman and seated him beside her. "Tell me what you have been doing all these long days."
"Oh, all sorts of things," John answered.
"Did you ever think of me?"
"Often," John answered, truthfully.
"Have you been loving me? Look into my eyes and say it, Bernard."
John turned his face towards hers. He saw love in her eyes; love that was offered to himself alone; and as he sustained the radiant tenderness of her gaze a wild impulse came to him to cast discretion to the winds. He hovered on the verge of telling her frankly and bluntly that he was not her husband. Nevertheless he longed to tell her that she was the one woman in all the world for him, that she had won his deepest love, and that he was prepared to break down all barriers, to risk everything if——. Then suddenly he caught himself up. His lips were sealed. As an honourable man, even if he admitted his true identity, he must not utter his love.
"Why are you looking at me so strangely, Bernard?" There was a puzzled and anxious light in her eyes.