topped at sight
of him, her hand on the door-bolt, and they stood for a second without
speaking.

"Have you seen Effie?" she suddenly asked. "She went out to meet you."

"She DID meet me, just now, in the court. She's gone on to join her
brother."

Darrow spoke as naturally as he could, but his voice sounded to his own
ears like an amateur actor's in a "light" part.

Miss Viner, without answering, drew back the bolt. He watched her in
silence as the door swung open; then he said: "She has her nurse with
her. She won't be long."

She stood irresolute, and he added: "I was writing in there--won't you
come and have a little talk? Every one's out."

The last words struck him as not well-chosen, but there was no time to
choose. She paused a second longer and then crossed the threshold of the
study. At luncheon she had sat with her back to the window, and beyond
noting that she had grown a little thinner, and had less colour and
vivacity, he had seen no change in her; but now, as the lamplight fell
on her face, its whiteness startled him.

"Poor thing...poor thing...what in heaven's name can she suppose?" he
wondered.

"Do sit down--I want to talk to you," he said and pushed a chair toward
her.

She did not seem to see it, or, if she did, she deliberately chose
another seat. He came back to his own chair and leaned his elbows on the
blotter. She faced him from the farther side of the table.

"You promised to let me hear from you now and then," he began awkwardly,
and with a sharp sense of his awkwardness.

A faint smile made her face more tragic. "Did I? There was nothing to
tell. I've had no history--like the happy countries..."

He waited a moment before asking: "You ARE happy here?"

"I WAS," she said with a faint emphasis.

"Why do you say 'was'? You're surely not thinking of going? There can't
be kinder people anywhere." Darrow hardly knew what he was saying; but
her answer came to him with deadly definiteness.

"I suppose it depends on you whether I go or stay."

"On me?" He stared at her across Owen's scattered papers. "Good God!
What can you think of me, to say that?"

The mockery of the question flashed back at him from her wretched face.
She stood up, wandered away, and leaned an instant in the darkening
window-frame. From there she turned to fling back at him: "Don't imagine
I'm the least bit sorry for anything!"

He steadied his elbows on the table and hid his face in his hands.
It was hard