There was one ghost I wanted laid before throwing myself on her mercy.
When I reached her again she was sitting in the chair I had just vacated, which I took to be a favorable symptom—at least she would not permit her hatred for me to stand in the way of a little talk that might clear the air.
I placed the light wrap about her, wondering meanwhile why she shivered.
“You have already taken cold,” I said.
“Oh, no, it was not that,” she replied.
Then it must have been my touch—was it so very repulsive? I thought, in dismay.
Dolt that I was not to see the fault lay in the soft, clinging thing I had thrown around her shoulders—that she shuddered because she seemed to guess intuitively it belonged to Diana.
But in such matters men are usually so very stupid.
I stood there leaning against the rail, because it pleased me to look upon her thus, and perhaps she would not care to have me sit down beside her.
An awkward silence followed.