The door opened and she met him, but this was not the radiant figure of his vision. It seemed to be not she, but an image of her—an image without life, without colour.
"Come in," she said; "I've something to tell you."
"What is it?" he asked bluntly. "What's happened, Harry? What's the matter?"
"I've found out," she said slowly, but without hesitation had she not rehearsed the speech a thousand times in these three days? "I've found out that it was a mistake, Tom. I—I love somebody else. Don't ask who it is. I love him. Ah—don't!"
For his face had turned a leaden white, and he was groping blindly for something to hold on to.
He sat down heavily on the chair where Dick had knelt at her feet the night before. But now it was she who was kneeling.
"Oh, don't Tom, dear—don't. I can't bear it. I'm not worth it. He's so brave and noble—and he loves me so."
"And don't I love you?" said poor Tom, and then without ado or disguise he burst into tears.
