“Were you coming back to the hotel this morning?” he asked.
“No.”
He was silent for a moment. Then he said slowly:
“Then—then you did not wish—you did not mean to see me again before I went?”
“It was not that. I came to the garden—I had to come—I had to be alone.”
“You want to be alone?” he said. “You want to be alone?”
Already the strength was dying out of his voice and face, and the old uneasiness was waking up in him. A dreadful expression of pain came into his eyes.
“Was that why you—you looked so happy?” he said in a harsh, trembling voice.
“When?”
“I stood for a long while looking at you when you were in there”—he pointed to the fumoir—“and your face was happy—your face was happy.”