Still frowning, Blake stepped forward and stopped short to stare about him at the resplendent room of gold and ivory enamel that he had entered. Only at the second glance did he perceive the graceful figure that had risen from the window-seat at the far end of the room and stood in a startled attitude, gazing fixedly at him.
Before he could speak, Genevieve came toward him with impetuous swiftness, her hands outstretched in more than cordial welcome.
"Tom! Is it really you?" she exclaimed. "I had not looked for you back so soon."
"It's somewhat sooner than I expected myself," he replied, with a bitter humor that should have forewarned her.
But she was too relieved and delighted to heed either his tone or his failure to clasp her hands, "Yes. You know, I've been so worried. You really looked ill Sunday, and I thought Lord James' manner that evening was rather odd—I mean when I spoke to him about you."
"Shouldn't wonder," said Blake in a harsh voice. "Jimmy had been there before. He knew."
"Knew? You mean—?" The girl stepped back a little way and gazed up into his face, startled and anxious. "Tom, you have been sick—very sick! How could I have been so blind as not to have seen it at once? You've been suffering terribly!"
Again she held out her hands to him, and again he failed to take them.
"Don't touch me," he replied. "I'm not fit. It's true I've suffered. Do you wonder? I've been in hell again—where I belong."
"Tom! oh, Tom!—no, no!" she whispered, and she averted her face, unable to endure the black despair that she saw in his unflinching eyes.