As she clipped it he said:
“There is nothing serious the matter, is there, Adela? When I had your message I felt a little anxious.”
She lit a match for him. She felt very tender over him, but she felt also very much afraid of him.
“Your hand is trembling, my dear!”
He took hold of her wrist, and held it while she lit his cigar. And his dry, firm fingers seemed to send her some strength.
“If only I had as little to be ashamed of as he has!” she thought, with a sort of writhing despair.
And she longed, as never before, for an easy conscience.
“I’ve had rather a trying time just lately,” she said. “Come and sit down. Will you drink something?”
“Not yet, thank you.”
He sat down in an arm-chair and crossed his legs, putting the right leg over the left, as he always did. She was on her sofa, leaning on her left arm, and looking at him. She was trying to read him, to read his whole character, to force her way to his secret, that she might be sure how much she might dare. Could he ever turn against her? Was that possible? His kind, dark eyes were fixed upon her. Could they ever look unkindly at her? She could scarcely believe that they could. But she knew that in human nature few things are impossible. Such terrible changes can take place in a moment. And the mystery is never really solved.