Thus impelled, I followed her along the corridor to the small sitting-room at the end, where she had apparently left her candle.
By its light I saw that she was dressed in a black tailor-made gown, and that her face was white and haggard. She closed the door, and noticing that I was still dressed, said,—
“Have you only just come up to bed?”
“Yes,” was my answer. “Eric and I have been gossiping. The others went up long ago, but he began telling me some of his African yarns.”
“But everyone is in bed now?” she inquired, quickly.
“Of course,” I answered, wondering why she had come to me thus, in the middle of the night. She had changed her dinner-gown for a walking dress, but there was still the bow of blue velvet in her gold-brown hair which she had apparently forgotten to remove.
“Wilfrid!” she said, in a low, hard voice, suddenly grasping both my hands. “Although you refused to marry me you are still my friend, are you not?”
“Your friend! Of course I am,” I answered rather hoarsely. “Did I not tell you so before dinner?”
“I know you did, but—” and she dropped her fine eyes, still holding my hands in hers. Her own hands trembled, and apparently she dared not look me full in the face.
“But what—?” I asked. “What troubles you? Why are you dressed like this?”