“No; I have never dared to tell him yet. I married from school,” she continued, and in a few hurried sentences gave the outline of her story, omitting her husband’s name and profession, and all reference to her small son. “You see how I am situated. I have not ventured to tell the truth yet, and I confide my secret to your honour and your keeping.”
“Of course it is perfectly safe,” he began, rather stiffly, “and I feel myself very much honoured by your confidence, and all that.”
“Oh, Lord Tony, please don’t talk to me in that tone,” she exclaimed, with tears in her eyes. “I told you—because—you are what men call ‘a good sort;’ because I feel that I can rely upon you; because, though you like me, you don’t really care for me, you know you don’t; nor have I ever encouraged you or any man. My father is devoted to you; he is determined to—to—well—you know his wishes—and I want you to allow him to think that you have cooled, and have changed your mind. You—you understand?”
“And play the hypocrite all round!”
“Yes, but only for a little while.”
“Rather hard lines, when I have not changed my mind. Is Rachel in the swindle?”
“No—oh no!—no one but you and me and my husband, and a friend of his.”
“And pray, when do you intend to discharge your little domestic bomb?”
“When I go home. If I were to speak now, I should be turned out, probably on the hall door-steps, and the party would be broken up.”
(Yes, and there were several good days’ deer-stalking still in prospect, thought Lord Tony, much as he was concerned at this recent astounding confidence.)