"You never did; and it's bad luck not to. That's why everything went wrong! You were too shy; and . . your first wife didn't much like that sort of thing."
"My second wife will have to put up with it, whether she likes it or not!" he answered, drawing her towards him by dear and delicious degrees. "We won't play fast and loose with our luck this time."
An abrupt knock at the door startled her out of his arms; and the curtain was pushed aside by Desmond:—a strangely transfigured Desmond, with set jaw, and desperate eyes.
"My dear man . ." Lenox began. But an intuition of catastrophe past the show of speech made him break off short.
Then Desmond spoke, in a voice thick and unlike his own.
"Sorry to spoil things by interrupting you in this way. But one had to tell you. It's Honor . . ."
He could get no further: but his eyes were terribly eloquent; and the silence held them all as in a vice. The awakening woman in Quita gave her courage to break it.
"May I go to her?" she pleaded. "And help her . . if one can?"
Though the plea was addressed to Desmond, she glanced first at Lenox, and read approval in his eyes.
But Desmond shook his head.