"In some ways,—yes. It takes my breath away."
"Try and get it back before you go in to him," he counselled her kindly. "And keep some sort of hold on yourself—for his sake. Don't trouble him about results, unless he broaches the subject. It we can keep clear of the worry element, just getting hold of you again may do him a power of good."
Then,—creature of moods and impulse that she was,—she turned on him spontaneously, both hands outflung.
"Mon Dieu, what a friend you have been to us both! Thank you a thousand times, for everything. I know you hate it. But if I kept it in any longer, I should burst!"
"Just as well you let it out, then," Desmond answered, laughing, and grasping the proffered hands. "I must be off now. Good luck to you, Quita. You're worthy of him."
For some minutes after he had gone Quita stood very still, trying to get her breath back, as he had suggested: a less simple affair than it seemed, on the face of it. For although she had taken the plunge, in an impulse of despair, a week ago, she had only grasped the outcome in all its bearings during the past three days, throughout which she had been acutely aware of Eldred's presence on the farther side of her barred and bolted door. He had told her plainly that, until he felt quite sure of himself, he dared not take her back. Yet now, by her own unconsidered act, she was forcing upon him, at the least, a public recognition of their marriage; an acknowledgment that might make further separation difficult, if not impossible, for the present. All her pride and independence of spirit revolted against this unvarnished statement of fact; and the memory of Michael's random remark heightened her nervous apprehension. Yet, on the other hand, Love—who is a born peace-maker—argued that, after all, he might not be sorry to have his hand forced by so clear a proof of all that she was ready to do and suffer on his behalf. An argument strongly reinforced by her original determination to overrule his scruples, and help him in the struggle that loomed ahead.
In this fashion Love and Pride tossed decision to and fro, as they have done in a hundred heart-histories; till common-sense stepped in with the reminder that Eldred was waiting; and that by now retreat was out of the question. The thought roused her to a more normal state of confidence and courage. Putting away palette and brushes, she covered up her canvas: and because, for all her artistry, she was very much a woman, went straightway—not to her husband's door—but to her own mirror! The vision that looked out at her was by no means discouraging: a demure vision, in a simple, unconventional gown of green linen, with a Puritan collar, and a wide white ribbon at the waist. A few superfluous touches to her hair, and equally superfluous tweaks to the bow of her ribbon belt, wrought some infinitesimal improvement in the picture, which no mere man, hungering for the sight and sound of her, would be the least likely to detect. Then half a dozen swift steps brought her to his door: the one that communicated with the dining-room.
It opened on to a curtain, about which there still clung a faint suggestion of carbolic.
"Eldred?" she said softly. And the voice she had last heard through the hiss of rain, and the crash of broken branches, answered: "Come in."
She pushed aside the curtain, and stood so, paralysed by a nervousness altogether new to her.