her sitting-room some one rose from the chair by the fire, and she stood still, facing her husband.…
It was the moment both had desired, yet when it came it found them tongue-tied and helpless.
Bessy was the first to speak. “When did you get here? You never wrote me you were coming!”
Amherst advanced toward her, holding out his hand. “No; you must forgive me. I have been very busy,” he said.
Always the same excuse! The same thrusting at her of the hateful fact that Westmore came first, and that she must put up with whatever was left of his time and thoughts!
“You are always too busy to let me hear from you,” she said coldly, and the hand which had sprung toward his fell back to her side.
Even then, if he had only said frankly: “It was too difficult—I didn’t know how,” the note of truth would have reached and moved her; but he had striven for the tone of ease and sélf-restraint that was habitual among her friends, and as usual his attempt had been a failure.
“I am sorry—I’m a bad hand at writing,” he rejoined; and his evil genius prompted him to add: “I hope my coming is not inconvenient?”
The colour rose to Bessy’s face. “Of course not. But it must seem rather odd to our visitors that I should know so little of your plans.”
[ 266 ]
