He could have desired nothing better.
She entered quietly, her long black robe trailing after her girlish figure in fascinating contrast, and Stolliker observed all too clearly the whitening and compression of Pierrepont's lips as he went toward her in the old indolent, graceful fashion.
"I half feared you would not receive me, that you might be ill," he said, putting out his large, beautifully shaped white hand to take her cold fingers. "It was very good of you."
"I wanted—so much to know—all—you know—all that concerns—him," she faltered, in exactly the tone Stolliker would have had her use had he been able to suggest it. "I don't believe I have been in bed since—since you were here, and—"
"I was a brute," he interrupted, not looking at her—a fact which Stolliker observed, "to tell you so abruptly. I wanted to ask your forgiveness. There are times, you know, when a man forgets—everything, and is almost pardonable."
He had placed a chair for her before the fire, and she had sat down, her eyes fixed upon the blaze. She felt that a glance into his face would have dispersed all her courage, and she dared not risk it. But she knew that Stolliker would lose no point.
Leith did not sit. He stood with his elbow upon the mantel-shelf, his head supported by his closed hand, looking into the fire also. Once he glanced toward her, moved nervously, and allowed his eyes to return to the fire again.
Stolliker grunted a curious "Umph!"
The silence grew unbearable at last.
"Won't you—go on?" Carlita asked, wistfully. "Won't you tell me without—without questioning? It is so hard, so hard!"