"No, dear Eva, nothing at all. Only I am worn out, you see—quite an old man—and so I worry myself sometimes about you two. When I am far away—far from London—will you be happy? Tell me, Eva, will you be happy? Promise me, swear to me that you will."
She gently nodded in the affirmative, with a sigh of regret that he must leave London—regret for what he had suggested, worst of all for what he had left unsaid: the mystery, the terror! He, meanwhile, had risen; holding out his hands to her, and shaking his head, as though over the follies of man, he said, with his most pathetic smile:
"How silly you must think me, to torment myself so about nothing. I ought not to have said so much; perhaps I have saddened you with it all.... Have I?"
"No," she replied with a gentle smile, shaking her head. "No, not really."
He let himself drop into a chair, sighing deeply.
"Alas! such is life!" he murmured, with a fixed gaze full of sinister significance. She made no answer, her heart was too full.
By this time it was dark. Van Maeren took his leave. Frank alone had been asked to stay to dinner.
"Have you forgiven me?" he asked, very humbly, with his most insinuating and romantic air, as the last rays of daylight shed an ethereal glow on his face.
"For what?" she said, but she was silently weeping.
"For having distressed you, even for a minute?"