Sydney gave back the book without a word; in her position silence was the truest gratitude. Quietly and firmly Catherine removed the blank leaf on which Herbert had written, and laid it before him on the table. “I return your inscription. It means nothing now.” Those words were steadily pronounced; not the slightest appearance of temper accompanied them. She moved slowly to the door and looked back at Sydney. “Make some allowance for what I have suffered,” she said gently. “If I have wounded you, I regret it.” The faint sound of her dress on the carpet was heard in the perfect stillness, and lost again. They saw her no more.
Herbert approached Sydney. It was a moment when he was bound to assure her of his sympathy. He felt for her. In his inmost heart he felt for her. As he drew nearer, he saw tears in her eyes; but they seemed to have risen without her knowledge. Hardly conscious of his presence, she stood before him—lost in thought.
He endeavored to rouse her. “Did I protect you from insult?” he asked.
She said absently: “Yes!”
“Will you do as I do, dear? Will you try to forget?”
She said: “I will try to atone,” and moved toward the door of her room. The reply surprised him; but it was no time then to ask for an explanation.
“Would you like to lie down, Sydney, and rest?”
“Yes.”
She took his arm. He led her to the door of her room. “Is there anything else I can do for you?” he asked.
“Nothing, thank you.”