"Yes?"
"I pray you give it to me."
"To you? Why?" she asked, as the encouraging smile suddenly vanished from her face.
"Because I cannot bear the sight of Mme. la Marquise d'Eglinton, my wife, sullying her fingers one second longer by contact with this infamy."
He spoke very quietly, in that even, gentle, diffident voice of his, whilst his eyes once more riveted themselves on her face.
Instinctively she clutched the letter tighter, and her whole figure seemed to stiffen as she looked at him full now, a deep frown between her eyes, her whole attitude suggestive of haughty surprise and of lofty contempt. There was dead silence in the vast room save for the crackling of that paper, which to a keenly sensitive ear would have suggested the idea that the dainty hand which held it was not as steady as its owner would have wished.
It seemed suddenly as if with the speaking of a few words these two people, who had been almost strangers, had by a subtle process become antagonists, and were unconsciously measuring one another's strength, mistrustful of one another's hidden weapons. But already the woman was prepared for a conflict of will, a contest for that hitherto undisputed mastery, which she vaguely feared was being attacked, and which she would not give up, be the cost of defence what it may, whilst the man was still diffident, still vaguely hopeful that she would not fight, for his armour was vulnerable where hers was not, and she owned certain weapons which he knew himself too weak to combat.
"Therefore I proffer my request again, Madame," he said after a pause. "That paper——"
"A strong request, milor," said Lydie coldly.
"It is more than a request, Madame."