She began to tremble, and feared that he would guess it from her voice. She did not know what she answered: she heard him say: “I can’t hear.” She called “Yes!” and laid the telephone down, and caught it up again--but he was gone. She wondered if her “Yes” had reached him. She sat in her chair and listened. Why had she said that she would see him? What did she mean to say to him when he came? Now and then, as she sat there, the sense of his presence enveloped her as in her dream, and she shut her eyes and felt his arms about her. Then she woke to reality and shivered. A long time elapsed, and at length she said to herself: “He isn’t coming.” The door-bell rang as she said it, and she stood up, cold and trembling. She thought: “Can he imagine there’s any use in coming?” and moved forward to bid the servant say she could not see him. The door opened and she saw him standing in the drawing-room. The room was cold and fireless, and a hard glare fell from the wall-lights on the shrouded furniture and the white slips covering the curtains. He looked pale and stern, with a frown of fatigue between his eyes; and she remembered that in three days he had travelled from Givre to London and back. It seemed incredible that all that had befallen her should have been compressed within the space of three days! “Thank you,” he said as she came in. She answered: “It’s better, I suppose----” He came toward her and took her in his arms. She struggled a little, afraid of yielding, but he pressed her to him, not bending to her but holding her fast, as though he had found her after a long search: she heard his hurried breathing. It seemed to come from her own breast, so close he held her; and it was she who, at last, lifted up her face and drew down his. She freed herself and went and sat on a sofa at the other end of the room. A mirror between the shrouded window-curtains showed her crumpled travelling dress and the white face under her disordered hair. She found her voice, and asked him how he had been able to leave London. He answered that he had managed--he’d arranged it; and she saw he hardly heard what she was saying. “I had to see you,” he went on, and moved nearer, sitting down at her side. “Yes; we must think of Owen----” “Oh, Owen--!” Her mind had flown back to Sophy Viner’s plea that she should let Darrow return to Givre in order that Owen might be persuaded of the folly of his suspicions. The suggestion was absurd, of course. She could not ask Darrow to lend himself to such a fraud, even had she had the inhuman courage to play her part in it. She was suddenly overwhelmed by the futility of every attempt to reconstruct her ruined world. No, it was useless; and since it was useless, every moment with Darrow was pure pain...