He came into the room cautiously and feeling his way by the furniture. The darkness was darkness indeed to him. He could see nothing of her but a rosy glimmer where her skirt caught the direct glow of the flames.
He paused by the head of a sofa which had stood against the wall since he was a child, and gripped the smooth, familiar curl of the back.
“You were never afraid that I should ask more of you than ‘farewell,’ were you, Mademoiselle?” he said sweetly in his tired, slightly hoarse voice.
She fortified herself by memories, by the thought of the old Marquis, of his mother, by her own ideals. She tried to stifle her fatal pity that wished to weep over him, and to summon instead some ghost of last summer’s love to help her.
“Luc,” she said, with surprising steadiness, “you must not assume that I am inconstant, ignoble. You need me more than ever.”
He interrupted her, very gently.
“But you have no need of me.”
“Yes—ah, yes. This is a strange greeting for you to give me—Luc.” Her voice rose desperately. “Everything is as it was before.”
“No,” he said; “everything is changed. You know it—you knew it when you turned the lamp out.”
She was silent.