“Yes,” she rejoined quickly. “To look into your eyes, to hear you speak, would be torture to me now—I couldn’t bear it. Away from you I may be able to forget. That is what will be my chief aim in the future—to forget.”
“Perhaps some day—” he began hopefully. But she shook her head. His wife was just as likely to live as long as either of themselves.
“I wonder if you will ever really forgive me?” he added sadly. “I shall never forgive myself.”
“There is nothing to forgive,” she said, true to the innate sweetness of her nature. “There was no adequate reason why you should have kept your marriage a secret from me all these years; it was quite unnecessary. But we all make mistakes sometimes. It was not your fault that I was so foolish as to give my love unasked.”
She paused, for Bobbie reappeared upon the scene. Herbert wished to escort his visitors to the carriage; but Lady Marjorie reminded him that he was still an invalid: it was cold and draughty downstairs.
Bobbie endorsed her statement; and advised him to remain where he was.
“I’ll ’scort mother,” he said cheerfully. “I know how to take care of her quite as well as any growed-up person. Come along, mother. You’ll be all right with me.”
“I am glad that you have such a worthy protector,” Herbert said in a low voice, aside. “I trust he may ever be as attentive as he is now.”
“I trust so,” she rejoined, the tears springing to her eyes. “Good-bye—Mr. Karne.”
She held out her small ungloved hand. He pressed it gently, then almost reverently raised it to his lips.