"Hugh--Hugh Egerton!" she stammered, whispering as one whispers in a
dream.
She was pale as a lily, but the whiteness of her face was like light,
shining from within; and there was a light in her great eyes, too, such
as had never shone for Hugh on sea or land. Once, a long time ago, he
had hoped that she cared, or would come to care. But she had chosen
another man, and Hugh had gone away; that had been the end. Yet
now--what stars her eyes were! One might almost think that she had not
forgotten; that sometimes she had wished for him, that she was glad to
see him now.
"Lady Clifford," he stammered. "I--will you forgive my being here--my
frightening you like this?"
The brightness died out of her face. "Lady Clifford!" she echoed. "Don't
call me that, unless--I'm to call you Mr. Egerton? And besides, I'm only
Madame Clifford here. It is better; the other would seem like
ostentation in a woman who works."
"Evelyn," he said. "Thank you for letting it be Evelyn." Then, his voice
breaking a little, "Oh, say you're a tiny bit glad to see me, just a
tiny bit glad.
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