“I thought you would come, Stephen,” she said, simply, motioning him to a chair.

Could this automaton be Margaret?  He leaned on the mantel-shelf, looking down with a cynical sneer.

“Is that the welcome?  Why, there are a thousand greetings for this time of love and good words you might have chosen.  Besides, I have come back ill and poor,—­a beggar perhaps.  How do women receive such,—­generous women?  Is there no formula? no hand-shaking? nothing more? remembering that I was once—­not indifferent to you.”

He laughed.  She stood still and grave as before.

“Why, Margaret, I have been down near death since that night.”

He thought her lips grew gray, but she looked up clear and steady.

“I am glad you did not die.  Yes, I can say that.  As for hand-shaking, my ideas may be peculiar as your own.”

“She measures her words,” he said, as to himself; “her very eye-light is ruled by decorum; she is a machine, for work.  She has swept her child’s heart clean of anger and revenge, even scorn for the wretch that sold himself for money.  There was nothing else to sweep out, was there?”—­bitterly,—­“no friendships, such as weak women nurse and coddle into being,—­or love, that they live in, and die for sometimes, in a silly way?”

“Unmanly!”

“No, not unmanly.  Margaret, let us be serious and calm.  It is no time to trifle or wear masks.  That has passed between us which leaves no room for sham courtesies.”

“There needs none,”—­meeting his eye unflinchingly.  “I am ready to meet you and hear your farewell.  Dr. Knowles told me your marriage was near at hand.  I knew you would come, Stephen.  You did before.”

He winced,—­the more that her voice was so clear of pain.

“Why should I come?  To show you what sort of a heart I have sold for money?  Why, you know, little Margaret.  You can reckon up its deformity, its worthlessness, on your cool fingers.  You could tell the serene and gracious lady who is chaffering for it what a bargain she has made,—­that there is not in it one spark of manly honor or true love.  Don’t venture too near it in your coldness and prudence.  It has tiger passions I will not answer for.  Give me your hand, and feel how it pants like a hungry fiend.  It will have food, Margaret.”

She drew away the hand he grasped, and stood back in the shadow.

“What is it to me?”—­in the same measured voice.

Holmes wiped the cold drops from his forehead, a sort of shudder in his powerful frame.  He stood a moment looking into the fire, his head dropped on his arm.

“Let it be so,” he said at last, quietly.  “The worn old heart can gnaw on itself a little longer.  I have no mind to whimper over pain.”

Something that she saw on the dark sardonic face, as the red gleams lighted it, made her start convulsively, as if she would go to him; then controlling herself, she stood silent.  He had not seen the movement,—­or, if he saw, did not heed it.  He did not care to tame her now.  The firelight flashed and darkened, the crackling wood breaking the dead silence of the room.