She did not rise; pain and happiness, mingled, confusing her for a moment; and he was already seated near her, looking at her with an intentness almost expressionless.
"You see," he said, "what the honour of a gambler is worth. I have lied to you twice already."
His words brought her to her senses. She rose with an effort and, as he stood up, she gave him her hand.
"Don't think me rude," she said. "I was resting—not expecting you—and the lamp and—your coming—confused me."
"You were not expecting me," he said, retaining her hand an instant. Then she withdrew it; they seated themselves.
"I don't know," she said, "perhaps I was expecting you—and didn't realise it."
"Had you thought—much about it?"
"Yes," she said.
Then it seemed as though something sealed her lips, and that nothing could ever again unseal them. All that she had to say to him vanished from her mind; she could not recall a single phrase she had prepared to lead up to all she must somehow say to him.
He talked quietly to her for a while about nothing in particular. Once she saw him turn and look around the room; and a moment afterward he spoke of the old-time charm of the place and the pretty setting such a room made for the old-fashioned flowers.