Bertram did go upstairs, that he might not appear to be unmanly, as he said to himself, in slinking out of the house. He did go upstairs, for one quarter of an hour.
But the baron did not. For him, it may be presumed, his club had charms. Mr. Stistick, however, did do so; he had to hand Mrs. Stistick down from that elysium which she had so exquisitely graced. He did hand her down; and then for five minutes George Bertram found himself once more alone with Caroline Waddington.
"Good-night, Lady Harcourt," he said, again essaying to take her hand. This and his other customary greeting was all that he had yet spoken to her.
"Good-night, Mr. Bertram." At last her voice faltered, at last her eye fell to the ground, at last her hand trembled. Had she stood firm through this trial all might have been well; but though she could bear herself right manfully before stranger eyes, she could not alone support his gaze; one touch of tenderness, one sign of weakness was enough—and that touch was there, that sign she gave.
"We are cousins still, are we not?" said he.
"Yes, we are cousins—I suppose so."
"And as cousins we need not hate each other?"
"Hate each other!" and she shuddered as she spoke; "oh, no, I hope there is no hatred!"
He stood there silent for a moment, looking, not at her, but at the costly ornaments which stood at the foot of the huge pier-glass over the fireplace. Why did he not go now? why did he stand there silent and thoughtful? why—why was he so cruel to her?
"I hope you are happy, Lady Harcourt," at last he said.