He thought she must be suffocating. She gasped for breath, lifting her chin high. She was shaken with sobs. She clasped his head in her hands and placed her face against it—but the movement was despairing, not loving.
He tried again to look into her eyes; and presently he discovered that they were quite dry. It seemed she had lost the power to weep; yet her sobs became rhythmic, even—like those of any woman who grieves deeply and is still uncomforted.
He held her tenderly and spoke her name over and over. The tears would come soon, and when she had wept he could ask her to tell him what it was that had wounded her. He was suffering cruelly; he was in despair. But he admonished himself firmly to bear with her, to comfort her, to wait.
And at last, as if indeed she had been leaning against a wall for support until she could recover herself, she drew away from him. She was almost calm again; but Harboro realized that she was no nearer to him than she had been when first she had climbed the stairs and stood before him.
He placed a firm hand on her shoulder and guided her to a chair. He sat down and pulled her gently down to him. “Now, Sylvia!” he said with firmness.
She was kneeling beside him, her elbows on his knees, her face in her hands. But the strange remoteness was still there. She would not look at him.
“Come!” he admonished. “I am waiting.”
She looked at him then; but she wore the expression of one who does not understand.
“Something has gone wrong,” he said. “You see, I’ve not been impatient with you. But you ought to tell me now.”
“You mean I ought to tell you what’s gone wrong?”