He had only bowed to her as she entered, and now she was going away without offering her hand.
"Roma," he said, in a voice that sounded choked.
She stopped but did not speak, and he felt himself growing hot all over.
"I'm relieved—so much relieved—to hear that you agree with what I said in my letter."
"The last—in which you wish me to forget you?"
"It is better so—far better. I am one of those who think that if either party to a marriage"—he was talking in a constrained way—"entertains beforehand any rational doubt about it, he is wiser to withdraw, even at the church door, rather than set out on a life-long voyage under doubtful auspices."
"Didn't we promise not to speak of this?" she said impatiently. Then their eyes met for a moment, and he knew that he was false to himself and that his talk of renunciation was a mockery.
"Roma," he said again, "if you want me in the future you must write."
Her face clouded over.
"For your own sake, you know...."