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Ailsa stood with her hands on the arm of her chair, in the attitude of one who wakes from a dream. Braybrooke gazed at her with eyes half-filled with tears, and lips that trembled. It seemed to him that he had never seen Ailsa the woman before. She was dressed in white, with a single flower at her throat, looking much as he had seen her look in the past, and yet so different. Braybrooke had half-expected that she would turn from him, but she did nothing of the kind.
"Are you not going to speak to me, Ailsa?" he asked at length.