She saw him as he came up on the porch, and stopped, looking out, as if bewildered,--then resumed her walk, mechanically. What it cost her to see him again he could not tell: her face did not alter. It was lifeless and schooled, the eyes looking straight forward always, indifferently. Was this his work? If he had killed her outright, it would have been better than this. The windows were low: it had been his old habit to go in through them, and he now went up to one unconsciously. As he opened it, he saw her turn away for an instant; then she waited for him, entirely tranquil, the clear fire shedding a still glow over the room, no cry or shiver of pain to show how his coming broke open the old wound. She smiled even, when he leaned against the window, with a careless welcome. Holmes stopped, confounded. It did not suit him,--this. If you know a man's nature, you comprehend why. The bitterest reproach, or a proud contempt would have been less galling than this gentle indifference. His hold had slipped from off the woman, he believed. A moment before he had remembered how he had held her in his arms, touched her cold lips, and then flung her off,--he had remembered it, every nerve shrinking with remorse and unutterable tenderness: now----! The utter quiet of her face told more than words could do. She did not love him; he was nothing to her. Then love was a lie. A moment before he could have humbled himself in her eyes as low as he lay in his own, and accepted her pardon as a necessity of her enduring, faithful nature: now, the whole strength of the man sprang into rage, and mad desire of conquest. He came gravely across the room, holding out his hand with his old quiet control. She might be cold and grave as he, but underneath he knew there was a thwarted, hungry spirit,--a strong, fine spirit as dainty Ariel. He would sting it to life, and tame it: it was his. "I thought you would come, Stephen," she said, simply, motioning him to a chair. Could this automaton be Margret? He leaned on the mantel-shelf, looking down with a cynical sneer. "Is that the welcome? Why, there are a thousand greetings for this time of love and good words you might have chosen. Besides, I have come back ill and poor,--a beggar perhaps. How do women receive such,--generous women? Is there no etiquette? no hand-shaking? nothing more? remembering that I was once--not indifferent to you." He laughed. She stood still and grave as before. "Why, Margret, I have been down near death since that night." He thought her lips grew gray, but she looked up clear and steady. "I am glad you did not die. Yes, I can say that. As for hand-shaking, my ideas may be peculiar as your own."