She sat upright in his hold, not yielding an inch, not looking at him. 
Her eyes were glassy.

For a little he held her; then gently but insistently he drew her to him, pillowed her head against him, and began to rub her icy cheek.

“I’ve left you alone too long,” he said.

She suffered him dumbly, scarcely knowing what she did.  But presently the blood that seemed to have frozen in her veins began to circulate again, and the stiffness passed from her limbs.  She stirred in his hold like a frightened bird.

“I’m sorry!” she faltered.

He let her draw away from him, but he kept his arm about her.  She looked at him, and found him intently watching her.  Her eyes fell, and rested upon the letter which lay crumpled under her hands.

“A dreadful thing has happened to me,” she said.  “Robin has written to say—­to say—­that he cannot marry me!”

“What is there dreadful in that?” said Mercer.

She did not look up, though his words startled her a little.

“It—­has made me feel like—­like a stray cat again,” she said, with the ghost of a smile about her lips.  “Of course, I know I’m foolish.  There must be plenty of ways in which a woman can earn her living here.  You yourself were thinking of something that I might do, weren’t you?”

“I was,” said Mercer.  He laid his great hand upon hers, paused a moment, then deliberately drew her letter from beneath them and crushed it into a ball.  “But I want you to tell me something before we go into that.  The truth, mind!  It must be the truth!”

“Yes?” she questioned, with her head bent.

“You must look at me,” he said, “or I shan’t believe you.”

There was something Napoleonic about his words which placed them wholly beyond the sphere of offensiveness.  Slowly she turned her head and looked him in the eyes.

He took his arm abruptly away from her.

“Heavens!” he said.  “How miserable you look!  Are you very miserable?”

“I’m not very happy,” she said.

“But you always smile,” he said, “even when you’re crying.  Ah, that’s better!  I scarcely knew you before.  Now, tell me!  Were you in love with the fellow?”

She shrank a little at the direct question.  He put his hand on her shoulder.  His touch was imperious.

“Just a straight answer!” he said.  “Were you?”

She hesitated, longing yet fearing to lower her eyes.

“I—­I don’t quite know,” she said at length.  “I used to think so.”

“You haven’t thought so of late?” His eyes searched hers unsparingly, with stern insistence.

“I haven’t been sure,” she admitted.

He released her and rose.

“You won’t regret him for long,” he said.  “In fact, you’ll live to be glad that you didn’t have him!”

She did not contradict him.  He was too positive for that.  She watched him cross the room with a certain arrogance, and close the half-open door.  As he returned she stood up.