One morning, on returning from her tryst in the woods, she met the baronet at the gates of the park. "You are out early, Miss Beecham," he said with constrained courtesy.
"I hope, sir, I am not late," she replied anxiously.
"You are always punctual—a model of punctuality—in the discharge of your duties. It is scarcely half-past ten," he replied in a ceremonious tone, with the slightest emphasis on the word duties. As they walked toward the house he added, "Far be it from me to imply that I have a right to claim more of the pleasure of your society than you care to give me."
"I am afraid, sir, you have missed me—" she began.
"I have told you I am a solitary; I miss no one," he interrupted with that directness of speech which might have been brutal, had it not been veiled by the art he possessed of lofty politeness.
"There is something I want to tell you, sir, that I ought to have told you before," began Meg, her heart beating and her cheeks flushing, as she felt that the hour of revelation had come.
The baronet's gaze rested upon her with an illconcealed flicker of anxiety. But he said in his finest manner that he would be happy to listen to anything she had to say; but perhaps the interview had best be deferred until they reached his study.
When they came there Meg began hesitatingly: "The post that I have filled, sir, in your household has been one of pleasure to me; still what is difficult to say I must say now—I must resign it."
"Resign it!" exclaimed Sir Malcolm, bending his eyes upon her. "For what reason?"