SHE sat still without saying anything. It seemed to her as if she were on the platform at Manchester House singing the Italian song. Then the disfigured face of Carey—disfigured by vice as hers now by the accident—had become as nothing to her. She had seen only his eyes. She saw only his eyes now. He remained standing up in the faint light with the oars in his hands looking at her. Round about them tinkled the bells above the nets.
“You heard me call?” he said at last, almost roughly.
She nodded.
“How did you—?” she began, and stopped.
“I was there this evening when you came in. I heard your boy singing. I was under the shadow of the woods.”
“Why?”
All this time she was gazing into Carey’s eyes, and had not seen in them that he was looking, for the first time, at her altered face. She did not realise this. She did not remember that her face was altered. The expression in his eyes made her forget it.
“I wanted something of you.”
“What?”
He let the oars go, and sat down on the little seat. They were close to each other now. The sides of the boats touched. He did not answer her question.