The door opened, and Norman could scarcely believe his senses. For a second he did not even sit forward. He did not stir; he simply remained sitting back in his chair, his face turned to the door, his eyes resting on the figure before him in vague amazement. The next second, with a half-cry, his wife was on her knees beside him, her arms about him, her form shaken with sobs. He sat forward slowly, and his arm rested on her shoulders.
"There! don't cry," he said slowly; "it might be worse."
But all she said was:
"Oh, Norman! Norman!"
He tried to raise her, with grave words to calm her; but she resisted, and clung to him closer.
"It is not so bad; it might be worse," he repeated.
She rose suddenly to her feet and flung back her veil.
"Can you forgive me? I have come to beg your forgiveness on my knees. I have been mad--mad. I was deceived. No! I will not say that--I was crazy--a fool! But I loved you always, you only. You will forgive me? Say you will."
"There, there! Of course I will--I do. I have been to blame quite as much--more than you. I was a fool."
"Oh, no, no! You shall not say that; but you will believe that I loved you--you only--always! You will believe this? I was mad."