Wiggins, on his part, with his quick, vigilant eyes, did not fail to
mark at once the change that had come over Edith. He saw the first
glance of pity, and then the transition to coldness deepening into hate.
Until then there had seemed a spell upon him which fixed his gaze on
Edith, but now the spell was suddenly broken. He removed his gaze, and
then, taking a chair, he sat upon it, and for a few moments remained
with his eyes fixed on the floor.

At last he raised his head, and, looking fixedly at Edith, began to
speak, and spoke in a strange, low, measured tone, with frequent
hesitations; in a way also that gave the idea of one who, for some cause
or other, was putting a strong constraint upon himself, and only
speaking by an effort.

"I regret, very deeply," said he, "that you were treated with rudeness.
Had I known that you would come so soon, I should have notified the--the
porter. But he--he meant no harm. He is very faithful--to orders."

"I am sorry to say," said Edith, "that it was not the rudeness of the
porter that was offensive, but rather the rudeness of yourself."

Wiggins started.

"Of myself?" he repeated.

"Certainly," said Edith; "in refusing to admit one who is my dearest
friend on earth."

Wiggins drew a long breath, and looked troubled.