“The sight of you now is enough to break the heart of any one who cares for you, Olivia,” he said soberly.
“It’s merely a question of sleeplessness. That’ll pass off.”
“It will pass off quicker in the country,” he urged. “It will be a break. The house will be yours. Mary and I, the discreetest shadows. You don’t know the self-effacing dear that Mary is. Besides, she is one of those women who is a living balm for the wounded. To look at her is to draw love and comforting from her.” He ventured the tips of his fingers on her slender shoulders. “Do come. Your old room shall be yours, just as you left it. Or the room I have always kept sacred.”
She stood by the fireplace, her arm on the mantelshelf, looking away from him.
“Or, if you like,” he went on, “we’ll clear out—we only want a few days—and give you back your old home all to yourself.”
She stretched out a groping hand; he took it.
“I know you would,” she said. “It’s—it’s beautiful of you. I’m not surprised, because—” she swayed head and shoulders a bit, seeking for words, her eyes away from him, “—because, after that first day at Medlow, I have never thought of you as doing otherwise than what was beautiful and noble. It sounds silly. But I mean it.”
She withdrew her hand and walked away into the room, her back towards him. He strode after her.
“That’s foolishness. I’m only an ordinary, decent sort of man. In the circumstances, good Lord! I couldn’t do less.”
She faced him in the middle of the room.