deliberately. No hasty steps should be heard on the
stairs or in the floor. Even so, the way was short; a moment, and she
had entered the room, and she and Evan were face to face once more.

Face to face, and yet, neither dared look at the other. He was
standing, waiting for her; she came a few paces into the room and stood
still opposite him; they did not touch each other's hands; they made no
show of greeting. How should they? in each other's presence indeed they
were, with but a small space of transparent air between, to the sense;
and yet, a barrier mountains high, of impassible ice, to the mind's
apprehension. You could have heard a pin drop in the room; the two
stood there, a few yards apart, not even looking at each other, yet
intensely conscious each all the while of the familiar outlines and
traits so long unseen, so well known by heart. Breathing the air of the
same room again, and nevertheless miles and miles apart; that was what
they were feeling. The miles could not be bridged over; what use to try
to bridge over the yards? Diana was growing whiter, if whiter could be;
Evan's head sank lower. At last the man succumbed; sat down; buried his
head in his hands, and groaned aloud. Diana stood like a statue, but
looking at him now.

What is it in little things which has such power over us? As Diana
stood there looking, it was little things which stabbed her as if each
were a sharp sword. The set of Evan's shoulders, the waves of his hair,
the very gold shoulder-straps on the well-remembered blue uniform
undress; his cap which lay on her table, with its service symbols. Is
it that the sameness of these material trifles seems to assert that
nothing is changed, and so makes the change more incredible and
dreadful? I cannot describe the woful pain which the sight of these
things gave Diana. With them came the fresh remembrance of all the
manly beauty and grace of Evan in which she had once sunned herself,
and the contrast of her husband. Not that Basil's personal appearance
was ever to be despised, any more than himself; his figure was good,
and his face had a beauty of its own, possibly a higher kind of beauty;
but it was not the type of a hero of romance; and Evan's, to Diana's
fancy, _was;_ and it had been her romance. She stood still, motionless,
breathless. If anybody spoke, it must be he. But at last she trembled
too much to stand, and she sat down too.

"How has it happened, Diana?" Evan asked without look