The color left her face; something seemed to smite her heart with a heavy blow, almost benumbing her, and she put out her hand, catching at the table for support, while the Bible fell heavily to the floor.
But she was very lovely even in her pallor and consternation. She wore a tea-gown of silver-gray, with a dainty fichu of lace and blue ribbons, while, as she arose from the dinner-table an hour before, Virgie had selected some pink and white roses and playfully tucked them in her corsage.
Even during that first blissful year of their wedded life she had never seemed more beautiful or more dear to Sir William Heath than at that moment.
“Virgie,” he cried, springing toward her, and would have caught her wildly to his breast, the past all forgotten, conscious only that he had found her, his own loved one, once more!
But she rallied instantly, though she trembled violently and still clung to the table for support.
She put out her hand to stop him.
“Sir William Heath!” she said, weakly, but with a haughty bearing which became her well, and warned him that he must not approach her, causing him to remember, too, that she was his wife no longer, for that dread decree of the divorce court stood between them.
Yet he loved her madly still; his heart recognized her as his wife in spite of all.
“Oh, Virgie, I have found you at last!” he cried, his voice breaking in a great sob.
“At last we meet,” she said, with pale lips, although she thrilled at his words, “but I did not think it would be like this. Did you come here to seek me?”