“True.” A shrill whistle aroused them both. “Come on, the train is about to start,” said Castleton.
As Jacynth entered her sitting room, Fenella rose and ran toward him.
“At last, at last!” she said. The words came in a sort of gasp. Jacynth, holding her hands, stared at her, shocked at the change in her appearance. Every vestige of color was gone from her face, her eyes looked wild, and her parted lips were very pale. She had pushed back her hair from her forehead with a quick gesture, just as he entered the room. She was at her worst this moment, but the man’s love was so strong that he failed to see that. He thought her lovely—lovely always, and what was strange, even younger than she used to be.
“You know, you have heard,” she went on, her tone feverish.
“You forget!” said he gently, with a view to calming her agitation. “I know nothing. I have had only your telegram, and that was so vague.”
“Ah! You shall see another telegram then. That,” thrusting Mme. de Vigny’s into his hand, “that is not vague at all events.”
Jacynth read it carefully. He frowned. “That woman again!” he said.
“Yes. Again.” She stood back from him. “Do you believe he has gone back to her? Do you? Do you?” The very vehemence of her question conveyed to him the knowledge that she thought he had gone back.
“There is only this,” said he, striking the paper. “And it is from her. She is not the woman to believe in.”