The long silence was broken at last, broken by a little inarticulate sound—half-sigh, half-sob—from Nan.
Peter raised his head and looked at her. His face was grey.
"God!" he muttered. "Where were we going?"
He stumbled to the chimneypiece, and, leaning his arms on it, buried his face against them.
Presently she spoke to him, timidly.
"Peter?" she said. "Peter?"
At the sound of her voice he turned towards her, and the look in his eyes hurt her like a physical blow.
"Oh, my dear . . . my dear!" she cried, trembling towards him. "Don't look like that . . . Ah! don't look like that!"
And her hands went fluttering out in the mother-yearning that every woman feels for her man in trouble.
"Forgive me, Nan . . . I'm sorry."