The young lady's voice sunk low as she answered,
"I—I think we have both changed."
"But there must be some reason for this. What has Ruth done that you should shrink away from her?"
"Perhaps she feels the difference of position," faltered Rose.
"But that has changed in nothing, at least in her disfavor," answered Hurst, flushing red with a remembrance of that day in the little church.
"She was so dainty, so sweetly retiring. It seemed to me impossible that she could ever have been brought to care for a man like young Storms. Now, that it is so, can I help feeling separated?"
"By Heavens! Lady Rose—" The young man checked himself suddenly, adding, with haughty decision, "We have dropped into a strange discussion, and are handling the name of a young girl with less delicacy than becomes me, at least. Shall we speak of something else?"
A flood of haughty crimson, and a struggle against the tears that rose in spite of herself, was all the reply this curt speech received from Lady Rose. The poor girl was not quite sure of her own disinterested judgment. For the world, she would not have said a word against Ruth, believing that word false; but she was conscious of such infinite relief when the news came to her of the engagement between Ruth Jessup and Storms, that the joy of it made her self-distrustful. How could she be glad that a creature so bright, so delicate, and thoroughly well-bred, should be mated with this keen, sinister man, whom no one loved, and who was held, she knew well, in little respect by his own class? Was she willing to see this sacrifice, that her own jealous fears might be appeased, and did Walton Hurst suspect the feelings which were a wound to her own delicacy? Were his last brief words a reproach to her?
Tears of wounded pride, and bitter self-distrust, rose to her eyes, so thick and fast, that the lady almost fled from the room, that Hurst might not hear the sobs that she had no power to suppress.