He said she met this question with a look so blank and uncomprehending that he just lifted her and carried her in among the palms.
"I must speak to Dorothy," he pleaded, placing her in the chair where he had often seen her sit of her own accord. "Be a good girl; I will not keep you here long."
"But why can not I go to my room? I do not understand—I am frightened—what have you to say to Dorothy you can not say to me?"
She seemed so excited that for a minute, just a minute, he faltered in his purpose. Then he took her gravely by the hand.
"I have told you," said he. Then he kissed her softly on the forehead. "Be quiet, dear, and rest. See! here are roses."
He plucked and flung a handful into her lap. Then he crossed back to the library and shut the conservatory door behind him. I am not surprised that Gilbertine wondered at her peremptory bridegroom.
When Sinclair reëntered the library, he found Dorothy standing with her hand on the knob of the door leading into the hall. Her head was bent and thoughtful, as though she were inwardly debating whether to stand her ground or fly. Sinclair gave her no further opportunity for hesitation. Advancing rapidly, he laid his hand quietly on hers, and with a gravity which must have impressed her, quietly remarked:
"I must ask you to stay and hear what I have to say. I wished to spare Gilbertine; would that I could spare you. But circumstances forbid. You know and I know that your aunt did not die of apoplexy."
She gave a violent start and her lips parted. If the hand under his clasp had been cold, it was now icy. He let his own slip from the contact.
"You know!" she echoed, trembling and pallid, her released hand flying instinctively to her hair.