With the last word she rose, turned from the piano and the room, and went out to the terrace.
Henry got up, strolled casually across the room, and followed her. She was standing by the low parapet looking over the sea. The night was still, the scent of hyacinths was heavy on the air, but every now and then a breath—something not to be called a wind—came up from across the water and brought with it cold, and a tang of salt.
The moon was still behind the house, but near to clearing it, and though they stood in the dusk, Henry could see Lady Heritage’s features as though through a veil.
Her icy mood was broken; the tears were rolling down her cheeks. She turned on him with a flame of anger.
“Why did you come? Why did you come? Do you know what Father said to me yesterday? I said I wouldn’t have you here, and he said—he said, ‘Good heaven! how can I keep the man away from what is practically his own house?’ Is it yours now?—have you come to see your property?”
Henry looked at her gravely.
“No, it is not mine yet,” he said, “and I came for a very different reason, as I think you know.”
“And you expected me to welcome you ... as if it wasn’t enough to be here, to live here—without——” She broke off, gripping the rough stone of the parapet with both hands. “You ask me why I don’t use the Oak Room—do you forget how you and I and Tony used to roast chestnuts there, and tell ghost stories—till we were afraid to go to bed? If there were no worse ghosts than those.... Do you know, every time you come into the room I expect to see Anthony behind you, and when you speak I catch myself listening for his voice?... Do you still wonder why I don’t use the Oak Room? What are men made of?”
“I don’t know,” said Henry. “Did I hurt you, Raymond? I’m sorry if I did, but it wasn’t meant.”
She sank down upon the parapet. All the vehemence went out of her.