"I gladly admit it, sir, and thank you; for it is another proof of the interest—the generous interest—you have lavished upon me," she said warmly.
"May I ask to what profession he belongs?" demanded Sir Malcolm.
"He is a writer," said Meg, and paused.
"A writer? That is somewhat vague," said Sir Malcolm.
"A journalist," she resumed, and again she paused.
Sir Malcolm knit his brows.
"It is difficult for me to explain," continued Meg, raising her eyes and speaking low, but quite firmly. "The circumstances that led to our meeting were so strange—in a manner they are painful. They may place me in a false light—I may appear ungrateful. The friend of my childhood is Mr. Standish, the editor of the Greywolds Mercury."
"Of the paper that dragged my name into print and held it up to public ignominy in its columns?" observed Sir Malcolm.
Meg bowed her head, and said falteringly: "These articles led to our meeting. I had called at the office to remonstrate, to expostulate with the writer."
"To expostulate, to remonstrate!" cried Sir Malcolm with a burst of outraged pride. "What! You exposed me to this humiliation; you begged quarter for me of this insolent radical. It was a grievous injury you did me!" He checked himself, then resumed with deliberate calm: "But let that pass. It is your marriage with this man we were discussing. I forbid it; I cannot countenance such an engagement."