'Yes.'
She had ceased to look up at him with candid luminous eyes; her face was downcast and her cheeks burned. A vague sense stole on her of the utter difference between himself and her; of the fact that, though he was all the earth held for her, she to him could only be a mere passing thought, a mere occasional interest, a mere waif to be pitied and aided and forgotten. His life was so crowded, so absorbed, so full of the world's gifts and the world's honours, she could expect nothing in it but here and there an instant of remembrance. She led the way into the dwelling-house in silence. The recollection of his wife had come to her: of that great lady who had tempted her, ridiculed her, forgotten her, and been her fate.
Where was she?
What did she know of herself?
She did not ask him; her joyous face grew dark under the shadow of the crimson hood drawn above her shining curls. If the mother of Napraxine could have seen into her heart at that moment her aged lips would have given the kiss of peace to these young ones for sake of the hatred her young soul felt.
'They are all away at work,' she said aloud; 'will you come into my room? I think the fire is not out.'
'I do not care about the fire,' replied Othmar. 'I wish I could bring you the sunshine of your own seas and shores—or take you to them.'
She did not answer; he asked again:
'Why would you not write to me?'
'I do not write very well, I told you,' she said, with the colour still hot in her cheeks; 'and I have no right to trouble you—in that way. It is cold here. Will you come to my room?'