faintest hope of her raising even a passing pity in his heart, that hope
would have been annihilated now.

She failed to understand the full meaning of his silence. She made her
excuses, poor soul, for venturing back to Windygates--her excuses to the
man whose purpose at that moment was to throw her helpless on the world.

"Pray forgive me for coming here," she said. "I have done nothing to
compromise you, Geoffrey. Nobody but Blanche knows I am at Windygates.
And I have contrived to make my inquiries about you without allowing
her to suspect our secret." She stopped, and began to tremble. She saw
something more in his face than she had read in it at first. "I got your
letter," she went on, rallying her sinking courage. "I don't complain
of its being so short: you don't like letter-writing, I know. But you
promised I should hear from you again. And I have never heard. And oh,
Geoffrey, it was so lonely at the inn!"

She stopped again, and supported herself by resting her hand on the
table. The faintness was stealing back on her. She tried to go on again.
It was useless--she could only look at him now.

"What do you want?" he asked, in the tone of a man who was putting an
unimportant question to a total stranger.

A last gleam of her old energy flickered up in her face, like a dying
flame.

"I am broken by what I have gone through," she said. "Don't insult me by
making me remind you of your promise."