And now he appeared in the doorway—very straight and slim in his grey suit, with the sorrowful black band on his arm.
"Rose!" he cried—and stood gazing at her, pulses hammering, brain dizzy. The mere sight of her brought back too vividly the memory of those April days that he had been resolutely shutting out of his mind.
His pause—the shock of his changed aspect—held her motionless also. He looked older, more sallow; his sensitive mouth compressed; no lurking gleam in his eyes. He seemed actually less good-looking than she remembered; for anguish is no beautifier.
So standing, they mutely confronted the change in themselves—in each other; then Rose swept forward, both hands held out.
"Roy—my darling—what you must have been through! Can you—will you—in spite of all——?"
Next moment, in his silent, vehement fashion, he was straining her to him; kissing her eyes, her hair, her lips; not in simple lover's ecstasy, but in a fervour of repressed passion, touched with tragedy, with pain....
Then he held her from him, to refresh his tired eyes with the sheer beauty of her; and was struck at once by the absence of colour; the wide black sash, the black velvet round her throat and hair.
He touched the velvet, looking his question. She nodded, drawing in her lip to steady it.
"I felt—I must. You don't mind?"
"Mind——?—Sometimes I wonder if I shall ever really mind things any more."