She caught her breath quickly, a wild hope leaping up in her heart. Had she wronged him? Would Arthur be so ready to face Overton, so apparently eager to meet him, if he had been the one to forsake him? A feeling of intense relief swept over her, and she sank back weakly in her chair.
“It seemed a miracle that he has come back—I couldn’t understand it!” she faltered.
He glanced at her without apparent comprehension. His mind seemed to have withdrawn itself again into the limbo of forgetfulness, and she saw that he was despatching his food with all the haste he could without seeming to hurry her too much.
The little maid, having served the coffee, retired to the kitchen, leaving them alone. Diane tried again, seeking wildly for some reassurance, some certainty that he was innocent.
“He didn’t tell me much about that awful time when he so nearly perished,” she said slowly, choosing her words; “but what he said—horrified me. I can’t forget it!”
Faunce raised his eyes reluctantly to her face, and she saw a strange expression in them—an expression that baffled her.
“Such things aren’t easy to describe, Diane. It’s like anything else that’s terrible and awe-inspiring—it leaves one speechless. There’s something about the polar wastes that makes a man’s soul numb and mute. I can imagine that any one lost there might become—well, just a brute!”
As he spoke, he rose from his chair, went to the mantel, and, opening his cigarette-case, selected a cigarette and lit it. Diane, watching him with her heart throbbing heavily, noticed that the hand which held the match shook a little; but when the light flared up on his face, it seemed to her unusually composed. He picked up his overcoat and pulled it on, talking to her in an evasive tone.
“I’ll go over at once. I may be late, for we shall have a good deal to say. Don’t sit up for me—you look tired.”
She had remained seated at the table, and she busied herself pouring out another cup of coffee.