“I can’t think why he ever proposed to you,” retorted Gerald, smartly.
And they, too, went out.
The marquis stood silent for a minute, his daughter leaning on his arm. She had not yet dared to look up at Hammond.
“Is there anything else that you would like to say?”
Hammond started at the question. The color began slowly to return to his face.
“I should like you to beg your daughter to forgive me—if she ever can.”
The marquis looked down at Belle and gently patted the head that rested on his arm.
“What do you say?” he asked her.
The eyes remained downcast. The answer came, very soft and low:
“Tell him that it wasn’t his fault, and, if it was, I had forgiven him already.”