Vane is relieved to find that there is no resentment in her face, only a new, sweet gravity a little strange to see on the piquant, girlish face.
"Ah, it is you, Mr. Charteris!" she says, carelessly. "You left us so unceremoniously this morning, I fear—thought you would not return."
Vane slips into the chair beside her, his heart unconsciously lightened of the burden that has weighed it down all day.
"To tell the truth I was half-afraid to come," he answers; "I was very rude to you this morning, and I knew you had reason to resent it, and expected you would. You remember you were wont to give me a piece of your mind very often in the days 'when we were first acquainted.'"
"Yes, but things are changed, you know," she returns, gently.
Reine is changed too. The thought flashes over him suddenly as he looks at her keenly, taking advantage of her momentary obliviousness of his presence.
She has folded her very small and slender white hands across the book in her lap, and is gazing a little dreamily out to sea.
The dark eyes are not so free and glad as they were of old.
They have grown larger and vaguely sad, the peachy cheek, rounded daintily like a child's, is pale to-day, the crimson lips have a slight, pathetic droop. Something in the softened loveliness of the brilliant face goes to his heart like a wordless reproach.
For a moment he regrets the arch, daring, sparkling face that used to flash defiance at him and his opinions.