Then, with a sudden reversion to the commonplace and everyday, he glanced at the clock.
“I must be off!” he exclaimed. “Ann will be wondering what has become of me—and, as soon as she’s quite sure I’m safe and sound, she’ll give me a scolding for being late for dinner,” he added, laughing.
Ann! Cara was conscious of an overwhelming rush of self-reproach. Ann miserable—and alone. And she had been keeping Robin here with her—or, at least, had let him stay. Should she warn him? Prepare him? She hesitated. But her hesitation was only momentary. Whatever had occurred betwixt Ann and the man who loved her, it was Ann’s secret, and she alone had the right to decide whether Robin should be admitted into it or not. But he must go home—now, at once!
“Why, yes,” she said urgently. “You must hurry back, Robin. Ann may be—feeling lonely.”
Half an hour later Robin strode into the living-room at the Cottage to find Ann sitting by the window, curiously still, and staring out impassively into the dusk with blank, unseeing eyes. At sight of her—white and motionless as a statue—a queer sense of foreboding woke in him, and he stepped quickly to her side.
“Ann!” he exclaimed. “Ann, what is it?”
She remained quite still, as if she did not hear him. He touched her shoulder.
“What is it, Ann?” he repeated urgently.
At the touch of his hand she glanced stupidly towards him. Then, shivering a little as though suddenly cold, she got up stiffly out of her chair. But still she did not speak. Robin slipped his arm round her.
“Ann—dear old thing, tell me. What’s happened?” he entreated.