The voice was so soft and musical, the intonation so winning, that he checked his impulse of flight; but he stared at her half bewildered.
“You haven’t forgotten me—Yvonne Latour?” she continued.
“Forgotten you? No,” he replied, slowly. “But I am not accustomed to being recognised.”
“The world is very full of hateful people,” she said. “Oh! how wretchedly ill you are looking! That was why you were sitting down on the doorstep. My poor fellow!”
There was a suggestion of tears in her eyes. He turned his head away quickly.
“You mustn’t talk to me like that,” he said, huskily. “I’m not fit for you to speak to. When I went under, I went under—for good and all. Good-bye, Madame Latour—and God bless you for saying a kind word to me.”
“Why need you go away? Walk a little with me, won’t you? We can go along to the Park and sit quietly and talk.”
“Do you really mean it—that you would walk with me—in the public streets?”
“Why, of course,” she replied, with a little air of surprise. “Did we not have many walks together in the old days? Do you think I have forgotten? And you want friends so, so badly that even poor little me may be of some good. Come.”
They moved away together, and walked some steps in silence. He was too dazed with the sudden realisation of his yearning for human tenderness to find adequate speech. At last he said harshly:—