ODNEY entered the room and it was then that Milly looked at her. Milly's face was no longer the face of passion, but of sadness and reproach, almost of recovered incredulity. It questioned rather than accused her. It said unmistakably, "You gave him up for that?"
Agatha's voice recalled her. "Milly, I think you know Mr. Lanyon."
Rodney, in acknowledging Milly's presence, did not look at her. He saw nothing there but Agatha's face which showed him at last the expression that to his eyes had always been latent in it, the look of the tragic, hidden soul of terror that he had divined in her. He saw her at last as he had known he should some day see her. Terror was no longer there, but it had possessed her; it had passed through her and destroyed that other look she had from her lifted mouth and hair, the look of a thing borne on wings. Now, with her wings beaten, with her white face and haggard eyes, he saw her as a flying thing tracked down and trampled under the feet of the pursuer. He saw it in one flash as he stood there holding Milly's hand.
Milly's face had no significance for him. He didn't see it. When at last he looked at her his eyes questioned her, they demanded an account from her of what he saw.
For Agatha Milly's face, prepared as it was for leave-taking, remained charged with meaning; it refused to divest itself of reproach and of the incredulity that challenged her. Agatha rose to it.
"You're not going, Milly, just because he's come? You needn't."
Milly was going.
He rose to it also.