All day he had
talked more than ever before; the flush on his cheeks was like the
flush of wine or the sun which had fired his blood. As he had talked
the more, so had she grown the more silent. She was sitting now with
her hands clasped and her head thrown back, looking up at the stars
with unseeing eyes.
"You do not regret Normandy, then?" he asked.
"No!" she murmured. "I have been happy here. I have been happier than
I could ever have been in Normandy."
He turned and looked at her with curious intentness.
"My experience," he said thoughtfully, "of young ladies of your age is
somewhat limited. But I should have thought that you would have found
it--lonely."
"Perhaps I am different, then," she murmured. "I have never been
lonely here--all my life!"
"Except," he reminded her, "when I knew you first."
"Ah! But that was different," she protested. "I had no home in those
days, and I was afraid of being sent away."
It was in his mind then to tell her of the envelope with her name upon
it in his study, but a sudden rush of confusing thoughts kept him
silent. It was while he was laboring in the web of this tangled dream
of wild but beautiful emotions that Aynesworth came. A pale, tragic
figure in his travel-stained clothes, and face furrowed with anxiety,
he stood over them almost before they were aware of his presence.
"Walter!" she cried, and sprang to her feet with extended hands.
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