I had not meant to speak harshly, and I told her so. She nodded, scarcely listening. Then I spoke of our coming journey, which, though it galled me to say so, I explained to her was nothing less than a flight.
She acquiesced, saying she was ready, and that she only longed to leave the town forever. She said that she had known nothing but unhappiness here, and that the memory of it would always be abhorrent, which surprised me, as I had understood that the gentleman-god dwelt hereabouts. However, I said nothing to disturb her or endanger her docility, and we discussed our plans reasonably and with perfect calmness.
I was pleased to see that she already appeared to be in better health. Rouge and patch had disappeared; her colour was better; her eyes brighter; her lips redder. Also, her gown was simpler and more pleasing to me, and her hair bore no extravagant towers, but was sweetly puffed and rolled from her white forehead. Still, her arms were more frail than I liked to see, and there rested a faint bluish shadow under each eye.
"How came you to find me out, here in my retreat?" she asked, slowly.
"Mr. Bevan told me," I replied, watching her.
"Poor Mr. Bevan," she murmured; "how jealous you were of him."
"He is a splendid fellow," I declared, much ashamed.
"So you are already friends," she observed, in a musing way.
"I trust so," I replied, fervently.
"Is it not sudden?" she asked.