Angela leaned back in her chair, her long eyes on him, and he felt, like a palpable atmosphere, the enmity between them.
“As it happens, Maurice told me that he had always known of his friend’s love for Felicia,” he pursued. “It’s in no sense an ordinary case of attraction, you see. A Dante and Beatrice affair. He has absolute trust in his friend, Maurice has, and I, of course, have absolute trust in Felicia. Not that I approve; I would have felt it my duty to protest in any case.”
“You think that I imputed some wrong that was not there, and that owing to me this breach has come between you and your daughter?” said Angela.
“I hold you in no way to blame. Without a full knowledge of facts—Maurice’s knowledge the most important of them—one may naturally draw false inferences. We were both a little hasty in judging.” Mr. Merrick essayed a generous smile.
A deep flush passed over Angela’s face. For a long moment she was silent, her eyes on him; then, in a voice harsh and monotonous she said—
“I hardly know what facts may mean to you—or inferences. Maurice, before he married your daughter, told me that Geoffrey had paid him to marry her. They live upon Geoffrey’s money. He has ruined his career for your daughter’s sake. These are further facts, Mr. Merrick. Have I indeed been a little hasty in my inferences?”
Mr. Merrick, his tea-cup in his hand, his face with as yet merely a look of wonder on it, sat dumb.
“You now see the knowledge that underlay my warnings. What Geoffrey’s motives were I cannot say; purely disinterested, perhaps; apparently your daughter was dying for love of Maurice. Whether they have remained so disinterested is for you to judge. But I hope you will acquit my warnings of hastiness.”
“Maurice told you?” Mr. Merrick repeated. He chiefly felt a deep, personal humiliation.
“As he told me everything at that time.”