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The next morning she awoke with a sudden pang of sympathy for Mary Gordon. Her intuitions were keener than they had ever been. She turned restlessly, then sprang out of bed and rang for her maid.
She went out into the garden and gathered a basket of roses for the breakfast-table. As she entered the court, the dew on her hair, her damp frock clinging to her bust and arms, Clive was standing by the fountain, and alone. His eyes had been dull, but the light sprang to them as he went forward to meet her. He half held out his arms. She dropped the basket into them with a little laugh.