Thus by her pride, and by her will answering the call of her pride, she was different. She no longer merely suffered, was no longer passive to, kindness or cruelty. He knew the change as soon as she came to him, in that very room which had witnessed the first stolen kiss, and, holding her hand out to him, cried, "Mr. Andy, you've not refused? There's no welcome for you in this house if you've refused. Father and I are quite agreed about it!"
Andy pressed her hand—Harry would have kissed it. "You know? I couldn't refuse their kindness. If I had, yours would have made me sorry."
"It's good of you to spare time to come and tell us."
Andy's answer had the compelling power of unconscious sincerity. "That seemed about the first thing to do," he said, with a simple unembarrassed laugh.
The girl blushed, a faint yet vivid colour came on her cheeks. She drew back a little. Andy's words were, in their simplicity, bolder far than his thoughts. Yet in drawing back she smiled. But Andy had seen the blush. Successful man as he had now become—big with promise as he was, at all events—in this field he was a novice. His blush answered hers—and was of a deeper tint. "I'm afraid that's awfully presumptuous?" he stammered.
"Why, we've all been waiting to hear the news! Father had the offer—you know that? But he couldn't stand London. Then they asked Mr. Foot's advice. He said it ought to be you. You do your best to prevent people thinking of you, but as soon as you're suggested—why, it's obvious."
"You really think I shan't make a fool of myself?" asked Andy.
The delicate flush was still on her cheeks. "You'll make me very much ashamed of myself if you do," she answered. "Is my opinion to be as wrong as all that? Haven't I always trusted you?"
His surroundings suddenly laid hold on him. It was the very room—she stood on the very spot—where he had witnessed Harry's first defection, her earliest betrayal.
"It seems—it seems"—he stammered—"it seems treason."