For a while he permitted himself the bitter-sweet satisfaction of merely watching her where she sat, in a shaft of sunlight, that struck golden gleams through the burnished abundance of her hair; of noting the grace and dignity of her pose, and speculating as to the nature of her thoughts. His wife's reckless impulse on that fateful September day was bringing him now within measurable distance of a very human danger. The deep, passionate heart of him, crushed and stifled during the past five years, was in no safe state to be brought into contact with a lighted match. But of this danger he was, by his very nature, sublimely unaware.
Finally he took the short pipe from his lips and spoke.
"Of course you know I have something definite to say, or I should hardly have the cheek to inflict myself on you twice in the twenty-four hours."
She looked up and smiled. "You're evidently in one of your bad moods, or you would not vex me by putting it like that."
"Sorry to vex you, but I am in a bad mood; have been for the last week; so you must make allowances, I can't sleep, and a restless devil inside me won't let me settle to steady work. Nerves, I suppose. I don't look a likely subject, do I? But they give me a deal of trouble at times; and I came to say that I must go back on my arrangement with you and Desmond and clear out of this before the end of the week."
"Oh, but surely that would be a great pity; a great disappointment to us both. Is it really a case of 'must'?"
"I think so."
"And you have only been here a fortnight! Isn't it rather early days to give in?"
"Very early days—as the case must appear to you; and the evil of it is that I have no power to make things clearer. Think me an overwrought fool; a broken-backed corn-stalk, if you choose. It will hurt, of course; but it can't be helped."
He spoke with undisguised bitterness, and, laying down her work, she looked at him straightly, a great compassion in her eyes.