Faverham shivered as if a cold breath had swept by him, and drew his lounge a little nearer the fire. He turned his head and looked at his wife as she passed in her slow walk. Again he gazed into the fire, then restlessly back at his wife; over and over. Graham kept his eyes fixed upon him, silently repeating the suggestion.
Suddenly Faverham arose letting the book fall unnoticed to the floor. Impetuously he approached his wife and taking her in his arms as if he had been alone with her, he held her close, while passionately, almost rudely, he kissed her flushed and startled face, over and over, hungrily. She was panting, and red with confusion and annoyance when he finally released her from his ardent embrace.
“Polly, Polly!” he entreated, “forgive me,” for she went and hid her face in the cushion of a chair; “don’t mind, dearest. Graham knows how much I love you.” He turned and walked towards the fire. He was agitated and passed his hand in an unmeaning fashion across his forehead.
“I don’t know when I’ve made such an ass of myself,” he said apologetically in a low tone to Graham. “I hope you’ll forgive the tactless display of emotion. The truth is, I feel hardly responsible for it myself; more as if I had obeyed some imperative impulse driving me to an emphatic expression. I admit it was ill-timed,” he laughed; “over-mastering love is my only excuse.” Graham did not stay much longer. A sense of relief – release, was overpowering him. But he was baffled; he wanted to be alone to puzzle the phenomenon out according to his lights.
