And he walked into the drawing-room in a lordly manner.
The reception that he met with staggered him considerably.
"Graham," said Rachel, in a very quiet voice, "did you send word to Mr. Roden Dalrymple that I was engaged to you that Christmas—you know when I mean—two years ago, when I was ill? Did you tell that lie to Mr. Gordon deliberately, when you knew how things were with us?"
He was silent—intensely silent—for a few minutes, amazed, ashamed, embarrassed, and savage. He did not know how to answer her. Then he gave a little short surly laugh.
"What about it? Who has been talking to you of those things? What is Mr. Dalrymple to you now, I should like to know?"
"Did you?" she persisted.
"And what if I did?" he retorted roughly, but still making a ghastly attempt at badinage. "All's fair in love and war, you know, my dear; and it was that aunt of yours who told the lie, as you elegantly term it—if it was a lie—not I; I merely did not contradict her."
She looked at him steadily, with that implacable hardness in her once soft eyes.
"I will never forgive you," she said; "I will never, never forgive you."
"I am sure I am very sorry to hear it; but I suppose I can manage to get on without your forgiveness," he began. And then he gave up trying to make a joke of it, and turned upon her savagely. "Have you been seeing that fellow, Rachel? Tell me this instant; I insist upon knowing."