"It's all very well to talk grandly about duty," she answered in a smothered voice. "And it's no use pretending to love me—when you won't do anything I ask. But—you want to go."
Desmond sighed, and instinctively glanced across at Honor for a confirmation of his resolve not to let tenderness undermine his sense of right. But that which he saw banished all thought of his own heartache.
She sat leaning a little forward, her hands clasped tightly over Meredith's letter, her face white and strained, her eyes luminous as he had never yet seen them.
For the shock of his unexpected news had awakened her roughly, abruptly to a very terrible truth. Since his entrance into the room she had seen her phantom palace of friendship fall about her like a house of cards; had seen, rising from its ruins, that which her brain and will refused to recognise, but which every pulse in her body confirmed beyond possibility of doubt.
Desmond's eyes looking anxiously into hers, roused her to a realisation of her urgent need to be alone with her incredible discovery. Her lips lost their firmness; the hot colour surged into her cheeks; and smoothing out John's letter with uncertain fingers, she rose to her feet.
But in rising she swayed unsteadily; and in an instant Desmond was beside her. He had never before seen this girl's composure shaken, and it startled him.
"Honor, what has upset you so?" he asked in a low tone. "Not bad news of John?" For he had recognised the writing.
She shook her head, fearing the sound of her own voice, and his unfailing keenness of perception.
"You must be ill, then. I was afraid you were going to faint just now. Come into the dining-room and have a glass of wine."