As he opened it,
he saw her turn away for an instant; then she waited for him,
entirely tranquil, the clear fire shedding a still glow over the
room, no cry or shiver of pain to show how his coming broke open
the old wound. She smiled even, when he leaned against the
window, with a careless welcome.
Holmes stopped, confounded. It did not suit him,--this. If you
know a man's nature, you comprehend why. The bitterest reproach,
or a proud contempt would have been less galling than this gentle
indifference. His hold had slipped from off the woman, he
believed. A moment before he had remembered how he had held her
in his arms, touched her cold lips, and then flung her off,--he
had remembered it, every nerve shrinking with remorse and
unutterable tenderness: now----! The utter quiet of her face
told more than words could do. She did not love him; he was
nothing to her. Then love was a lie. A moment before he could
have humbled himself in her eyes as low as he lay in his own, and
accepted her pardon as a necessity of her enduring, faithful
nature: now, the whole strength of the man sprang into rage, and
mad desire of conquest.
He came gravely across the room, holding out his hand with his
old quiet control. She might be cold and grave as he, but
underneath he knew there was a thwarted, hungry spirit,--a
strong, fine spirit as dainty Ariel. He would sting it to life,
and tame it: it was his.
"I thought you would come, Stephen," she said, simply, motioning
him to a chair.
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