Silently, and as if by one accord, they paused under the chandelier, and each gazed into the face of the other.
His eyes met hers, stern, accusing, and darkened with pain; while she—her bearing was proud as his, her face mournful, her eyes resolute, her lips set in firm lines. She looked neither criminal nor penitent; she was a woman driven to bay, and she would fight rather than flee.
Looking him full in the face, she made no effort to break the silence. Seeing which, Alan Warburton said:
“Madam, you play your part well. You are not now the nocturnal wanderer menaced by a danger—”
“From which you rescued me,” she interrupts, her face softening. “Alan, it was a brave deed, and I thank you a thousand times!”
“I do not desire your gratitude, Madam. I could have done no less, and would do yet more to save from disgrace the name we bear in common. Was your absence noted? Did you return safely and secretly?”
“I have not been missed, and I returned as safely and as secretly as I went.”
Her voice was calm, her countenance had hardened as at first.
“Madam, let us understand each other. One year ago the name of Warburton had never known a stain; now—”
He let the wrath in his eyes, the scorn in his face, finish what his lips left unsaid.