Page:Wildwildheart00reesiala.pdf/256

“We’re quite alone now,” said Ann, “and we shan’t be disturbed again.”

“Are you surprised to see me?” asked Vera, with a certain harsh abruptness.

“Just at first I was, but I think I always knew we’d meet again—somewhere.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. I think our lives are bound together in a way—yours and mine.”

“The bond was nearly broken then. They thought I was dying in Sydney—I wish I had died.”

Even in the dim light, Ann could see that the handsome face was more haggard than ever—the dark eyes more deeply sunken.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“Sorry that I didn’t die?”

“You know that’s not what I mean.”

“Why should you be sorry for any other reason? I don’t want pity.”

“Don’t you want any affection—any sympathy?”

Vera did not answer for a moment, and then she said sharply:

“That’s out of the question between us now.”

“Why? You don’t believe that story about Mr. Holmes and me—I know you don’t.”

“Why shouldn’t I?”

“You know that there’s only one woman in his life—you.”

Suddenly Ann pushed forward a chair.

“Sit down. You’re dead tired.”

“There’s no reason why I should be—I’ve been sitting in the Hawkeston service car all day.”

But nevertheless she took the chair that was offered.