CHAPTER XXV.
THE MOONLIGHT SONATA.
"The depth and dream of my desire,
The bitter paths wherein I stray,
Thou knowest, who hast made the Fire,
Thou knowest, who hast made the Clay."
—Kipling.
When the bedroom door opened, Desmond lifted his head, in a distracted attempt to see more of his wife than the shade would permit, and held out his hand.
"Come, Ladybird. I want you."
She came at his bidding, and put her hand in his. But, unwittingly, she stood no nearer than the action demanded; and in her bewildered misery she forgot that he would expect her to stoop and kiss him. It was a fatal omission—how fatal she did not realise till later.
He drew her closer with quiet decision; and she submitted, as she would have submitted to anything he might have chosen to do just then.
"Am I so very dreadful that you can't bear to come near me?" he asked, with a brave attempt at lightness.
"Oh, Theo, don't say that," she pleaded. It came too painfully near the truth. "Only—I can't seem able to believe that—it is really you."
"Well, I give you my word it is really me—the very same Theo who won the Punjab Cup, and danced with you at Lahore three months ago." Then he bit his lip sharply; for the thought smote him that he might never sit a pony or dance with her again.