"Well, yes; but more for not having, long ago, in all these years, found out that you were the woman that any man with eyes to see, any man not blinded and fatuous, ought to have been in love with from the beginning."
Amabel flushed. Her vision was untroubled; but the shadow hovered. She was ashamed for him.
"No"; she said, "I did not think of that. I don't know that I have anything to forgive you. It is Lady Elliston, I think, who must try and forgive you, if she can."
Sir Hugh was again silent for a moment; then he laughed. "You dear innocent!—Well—I won't defend myself at her expense."
"Don't," said Amabel, looking now away from him.
Sir Hugh eyed her and seemed to weigh the meaning of her voice.
He crossed the room suddenly and leaned over her:—"Amabel darling,—what must I do to atone? I'll be patient. Don't be cruel and punish me for too long a time."
"Sit there—will you please." She pointed to the chair at the other side of the table.
He hesitated, still leaning above her; then obeyed; folding his arms; frowning.
"You don't understand," said Amabel. "I loved you for what you never were. I do not love you now. And I would never have loved you as you asked me to do yesterday."