Lawrence sprang to his feet. He was too late. Carolyn stepped up on to the rock where the two stood.
She had not noticed any sound of voices; she was there in front of this man, and could not retreat. But she gave no sign of wishing to retreat. After the first instantaneous and uncontrollable flutter of features, she was calm,—how calm she was! So Lawrence thought. He supposed it was the calmness of contempt. He knew that she ought to feel contempt for him; more than that, he ought to wish her to feel it.
If he had only been manly in his manner of desertion! If he had only told her that his old passion for Prudence had sprung into life again stronger than ever; that would have been bad enough, but that now seemed honor itself compared with what he had really done.
He gave one look into her steady, lovely eyes. Had she always been as beautiful as she was now?
He told himself, meanly and bitterly, that she couldn't have suffered much from what he had done. After all, he might have been very much mistaken in his estimate of her love for him. Perhaps women could not love deeply, anyway.
Lawrence did not know how pale he was; but he soon perceived that Carolyn was growing white after her glance at him.
"I hope you'll be kind enough to speak to me, Miss Ffolliott," he said, as soon as he could command his voice.
When he had spoken thus, he was afraid there was too much pleading in his tone.
He had often pictured himself as writing to her, explaining everything, and beseeching her to pardon him; but he had never quite dared, even in his thoughts, to stand before her as he did now. And yet he had come to this shore because he longed to come; he must have known in the bottom of his thoughts that here it would be possible to meet her, though he might guide his movements so as to make such a meeting improbable.
"Certainly," Carolyn answered, promptly, "I will speak to you. I am sorry to see you looking so ill."