Christine sat by the table under the light. There was a drawer beside her
which she had evidently torn out of its place in panic-stricken haste, for
the floor about her was littered with its contents--gloves and
handkerchiefs and ribbons. She held a shabby, empty purse in her limp
hand, and it was as though she had sat down because she had no longer the
strength to stand. He had not known before how grey her hair was. Her
face was grey, too, and withered like a dead leaf.
He stood hesitating in the doorway and they looked at one another. There
was no question of punishment or reproof between them. It was the old
days over again when they had clung together in the face of a common
peril--helpless and horribly afraid. She tried to smile and push the
empty purse out of sight as though it were of no account at all. And all
at once he was ashamed and miserable with pity.
"I was beginning to get quite worried about you." He could hardly hear
her. "Where have you been, Robert?"
He answered heavily, not moving from the doorway where he hung like a
sullen shadow.
"At the Circus."
"Is there a Circus? Why didn't Mrs. Withers tell me? If I had known that
I shouldn't have worried. I expect you were there yesterday too--and the
day before, weren't you, dear?"
He nodded, and she began to bundle everything back into the drawer, as
though at last a tiresome question had been satisfactorily settled.
"I knew it was all right.
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