Finally he got up and filled his pipe, intending to try the chair once more under the most favourable circumstances.
As he lighted his pipe there came a hesitating knock at the door; he jerked his head sharply; the knock was repeated.
Something--a faintest premonition--the vaguest stirring of foreboding committed him to silence--and left him there motionless.

The match burned close to his fingers; he dropped it and set his heel upon the sparks.
Then he walked swiftly to the door, flung it open full width--and stood stock still.
And Mrs.Ruthven entered the room, partly closing the door behind, her gloved hand still resting on the knob.
For a moment they confronted one another, he tall, rigid, astounded; she pale, supple, relaxing a trifle against the half-closed door behind her, which yielded and closed with a low click.
At the sound of the closing door he found his voice; it did not resemble his own voice either to himself or to her; but she answered his bewildered question: "I don't know why I came.

Is it so very dreadful?
Have I offended you?
.

.

.