“Good God!”
The words burst from him at last in a low, tense whisper, and, as if the sound broke some spell that had been holding both the man and woman motionless, Elisabeth stepped across the threshold and came towards him.
Trent made a swift gesture—almost, it seemed, a gesture of aversion.
“Why have you come here?” he demanded hoarsely.
She drew a little nearer, then paused, her hand resting on the table, and looked at him with a strange, questioning expression in her eyes.
“This is a poor welcome, Maurice,” she observed at last.
He winced sharply at the sound of the name by which she had addressed him, then, recovering himself, faced her with apparent composure.
“I have no welcome for you,” he said in measured tones. “Why should I have? All that was between us two . . . ended . . . half a life-time ago.”
“No!” she cried out. “No! Not all! There is still my son's happiness to be reckoned.”
“Your son's happiness?” He stared at her amazedly. “What has your son's happiness to do with me?”