“Why should I wash my hands and face?”
“There is blood upon them.”
“Blood?” She held out her hands with her former gesture. “So there is. I had forgotten. I cannot think how it came there.” Her cheeks assumed an added tinge of pallor. “Will it come off if I wash them?”
It seemed impossible to doubt that it was seriously asked; yet the apparent puerility of the question stung me to a brusque response.
“We will hope that soap and water will at least, remove the outward and visible stain.”
Turning, I went into my dressing-room, she following me with her eyes. There I hastily donned some more conventional attire. Thence, passing into the dining-room, I called to her through the bedroom door.
“When you are ready, may I ask you to come in here. We shall be more at our ease.”
She did not keep me waiting, but appeared upon the instant, coming towards me holding out her hands as a child might do.
“I’m clean now. Aren’t I clean?”
Her close propinquity filled with me wholly unreasonable agitation. I drew back. The removal of the cloak had disclosed a dark blue silk dress which fitted her, to my thinking, with the most marvellous perfection. There was a touch of white about her neck and wrists. Her beauty struck me more even than at first—it awed me. Yet at the back of my mind was born a dim fancy that somewhere in the flesh I had seen this enchanting vision before. I was at a loss as to the words with which I ought to address her, speaking at last, blunderingly enough.