"Sit down," he said, "and tell me what is the matter."
She sank down mutely. Her mouth was quivering; she sought to hide it
from him with her hand.
"Tell me," he said again, and quietly though he spoke there was in his
tone a certain mastery that had never asserted itself in the old days;
"What is it? Why have you come to me like this?"
"I--haven't come to stay, Will," she said, her voice so low that it
was barely audible.
His face changed. He looked suddenly dogged. "After twenty months!" he
said.
She bent her head. "I know. It's half a lifetime--more. You have
learnt to do without me by this. At least--I hope you have--for your
own sake."
He made no comment on the words; perhaps he did not hear them. After a
brief silence she heard his voice above her bowed head. "Something is
wrong. You'll tell me presently, won't you? But--really you needn't be
afraid."
Something in the words--was it a hint of tenderness?--renewed her
failing strength. She commanded herself and raised her head. She
scarcely recognised in the steady, square-chinned man before her
the impulsive, round-faced boy she had left. There was something
unfathomable about him, a hint of greatness that affected her
strangely.
"Yes," she said. "Something is wrong. It is what I am here for--what I
have come to tell you.
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