Luncheon over, the old people are convoyed back to their arm-chairs. Gerard stands with his back to the hall-fire, with the Times in his hand. Constance, under some pretext of looking over the day's papers, lingers near him.
"I have been telling my aunt about our alarm last night, St. John," she says, as sweetly as usual.
"Indeed!"
"And its tame prosaic dénouement."
"Indeed!"
"I am afraid I was unreasonably angry with you for what was evidently a mere accident; but when one is nervous and frightened, one really does not know what one says. I'm sure I have the vaguest recollection of what I said."
"I remember distinctly what you said, Constance."
"Indeed!" (with a smooth low laugh). "You don't bear malice, I hope? Things are much as they were before, I suppose?"
He lays down his paper, and looks at her steadily with his clear grey eyes. "Things are between us as they have been all our lives up to last October; as they have been since then, they will never be again."
She turns away quickly, to hide the mortification which even the cold pure mask of her face cannot wholly conceal.