Part 31 (2/2)

”I came to suggest more sunlight,” said Pamela. ”There is our villa at Roquebrune in the south of France. It will be empty this winter. And I thought that perhaps you and I might go out there together as soon as Christmas is past.”

Millie was standing at the window with her back to Pamela. She turned round quickly.

”But you hate the place,” she said.

Pamela answered with sincerity--

”None the less I want to go this winter. I want to go very much. I won't tell you why. But I do want to go. And I should like you to come with me.”

Pamela was anxious to discover whether that villa and its grounds, and the view from its windows, had still the power to revive the grief with which they had been so completely a.s.sociated in her mind.

Hitherto she had shrunk from the very idea of ever revisiting Roquebrune; of late, however, since Warrisden, in a word, had occupied so large a place in her thoughts, she had wished to put herself to the test, to understand whether her distress was really and truly dead, or whether it merely slumbered and could wake again. It was necessary, for Warrisden's sake as much as her own, that she should come to a true knowledge. And nowhere else could she so certainly acquire it. If the sight of Roquebrune, the familiar look of the villa's rooms, the familiar paths whereon she had carried so overcharged a heart, had no longer power to hurt and pain her, then she would be sure that she could start her life afresh. It was only fair--so she phrased it in her thoughts--that she should make the experiment.

Millie turned back to the window.

”I do not think that I shall leave London this winter,” she said. ”You see, I have only just got into the house.”

”It might spare you some annoyance,” Pamela suggested.

”I don't understand,” said Millie.

”The annoyance of having to explain Tony's absence. He will very likely have returned by the spring.”

Millie shrugged her shoulders.

”I have borne that annoyance for two years,” she replied. ”I do not think I shall go away this winter.”

Was Millie thinking of Callon's return? Pamela wondered. Was it on his account that she decided to remain? Pamela could not ask the question. Her plan had come to naught, and she returned that afternoon to Leicesters.h.i.+re.

Christmas pa.s.sed, and half-way through the month of January Callon called, on a dark afternoon, at Millie Stretton's house. Millie was alone; she was indeed expecting him. When Callon entered the room he found her standing with her back to the window, her face to the door, and so she stood, without speaking, for a few moments.

”You have been a long time away,” she said, and she looked at him with curiosity, but with yet more anxiety to mark any changes which had come in his face.

”Yes,” said he, ”a long time.”

Millie rang the bell and ordered tea to be brought.

”You have not changed,” said she.

”Nor you.”

Millie had spoken with a noticeable distance in her manner; and she had not given him her hand. With her back towards the light she had allowed very little of her expression to be visible to her visitor.

When tea was brought in, however, she sat between the fireplace and the window, and the light fell upon her. Callon sat opposite to her.

”At last I know that I am at home again,” he said, with a smile. Then he leaned forward and lowered his voice, although there was no third person in the room. He knew the value of such tricks. ”I have looked forward during these eighteen months so very much to seeing you again.”

Millie's face coloured, but it was with anger rather than pleasure.

There was a hard look upon her face; her eyes blamed him.

”Yet you went away without a word to me,” she said. ”You did not come to see me before you went, you never hinted you were going.”

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