He turned the handle. He wondered if he could explain things to her as effectually as he had done to Feathers; somehow he rather doubted it—Marie had a way of looking into his very soul.
She still wore the frock she had worn at dinner that night, and was sitting at the window looking out at the moonlight.
Chris went forward.
"Did you think I'd got lost?" he asked lightly. He stood beside her, leaning his shoulder against the window-frame.
"Did you play billiards, after all?" Marie asked. She did not answer his question.
She was sitting with her back to the light, or he might have seen the tear-stains on her face.
"No." He looked away from her and up at the moon with vindictive eyes. "I took a skiff out and got upset" He laughed awkwardly.
"Got upset!" Her voice was full of alarm. "Oh, Chris, you might have been drowned!"
"When I was born to be hanged?" he queried. "Never, my child; but it was a cold bath I can tell you. I had to change and make myself presentable before I came to you. Well—how did you enjoy the concert?"
"Very much." She told him a little about it; she had not enjoyed it a bit; her thoughts had been with him all the time, but she would have died rather than let him guess it.