I went down to the breakfast-room. Mar-got was moving about it softly, awaiting me. In her white hands were letters. They dropped upon the table as she stole up to greet me. Her lips were set tightly together, but she lifted them to kiss me.
How close I came to my enemy as our mouths touched! Her lips were colder than the wind.
Now that I was with her, my momentary sensation of acute relief deserted me. The horror that oppressed me returned.
I could not eat—I could only make a pretence of doing so; and my hand trembled so excessively that I could scarcely raise my cup from the table.
She noticed this, and gently asked me if I was ill.
I shook my head.
When breakfast was over, she said in a low, level voice:
“Ronald, have you thought over what I said last night?”
“Last night?” I answered, with an effort.
“Yes, about the coldness between us. I think I have been unwell, unhappy, out of sorts. You know that—that women are more subject to moods than men, moods they cannot always account for even to themselves. I have hurt you lately, I know. I am sorry. I want you to forgive me, to—to”—she paused a moment, and I heard her draw in her breath sharply—“to take me back into your heart again.”