The recognising eyes were upon her as she opened the door. "I did not have much trouble to find you, this time," the man said. "I didn't even come here of my own accord. I don't know anything about it, except that I feel infernally bad. Can't you give me something, Marion?"
"I will give you something presently," she said. "I wish to talk to you a little first."
"Not until you've untied my hands. What are they tied up for, pray?"
"To keep you from working mischief."
"Have I done anything to that long chap that went out with you? If so I'll make amends—I'll make any amends in my power."
"You shall make amends. Don't be afraid."
"You speak as if you had not a particle of pity in you; you are as hard and cold as a stone, as you always were——"
"Not always," she said, grimly—"unluckily for me."
"Any woman who had a grain of pity in her would pity me now. I feel so frightfully bad, Marion; I believe I am going to die."