"Who, Ian? Guess!"
Ian, with a sudden force as strange to her as her own laughter, her own gay cry, pulled her hands away, held them an instant fast; then, kneeling on the sofa, he caught her in his long arms across the back of it, and after the pressure of a kiss upon her lips such as she had never felt before, breathed with a voice of unutterable gladness: "Mildred! Darling! Dearest love!"
A hoarse cry, almost a shriek, broke from the lips of Milly. The woman he held struggled from his arms and stared at him wildly in the veiling twilight. A strange horror fell upon him, and for several seconds he remained motionless, leaning over the back of the sofa. Then, groping towards the wall, he switched on the electric light. He saw it plainly, the white mask of a woman smitten with a mortal blow.
"Milly," he uttered, stammeringly. "What's the matter? You are ill."
She turned on him her heart-broken look, then pressing her hand to her throat, spoke as though with difficulty.
"I love you very much—you don't know how much I love you. I've tried so hard to be a good wife to you."
Ian perceived catastrophe, yet dimly; sought with desperate haste to remember why for a moment he had believed that that Other was come back; what irreparable thing he had said or done.
Meantime he must say something. "Milly, dear! What's gone wrong? What have I done, child?"
"You've let her take you—" She spoke more freely now, but with a startling fierceness—"You've let her take you from me."
"Ah, the old trouble! My poor Milly! I know it's terrible for you. I can only say that no one else really exists; that you are always you really."