She cast one startled glance at him, but, though her bosom betrayed its own disquiet, maintained her self-possession.
“Jealous?” she said. “Of Mrs. Davis and my husband?”
“No,” he answered, “but of Mrs. Davis?” He sought to convey a world of meaning into his look, his tone. “Shall I confess the truth?” he said. “It was Mrs. Davis I expected to find alone here.”
“I will send her to you.” She rose.
“No, no!” He begged her, with a gesture, to be seated again; but she refused to respond. “Be your kind and reasonable self. You misconceive me—indeed you do. I had come to a resolution—it was to see this young woman, and urge upon her, by every motive of decency and consideration, to leave this house, and cease to take advantage of a grotesque situation to persecute and humiliate you.”
She stood looking down at him, still impassive, still inscrutable.
“I should be grateful to you, cousin,” she said; “but I am humiliated in nothing but your thinking me so.”
“At least you are unhappy.”
“O no, indeed!”
“Not? Well, it is true that freedom has its compensations, sweeter by contrast than any rich possession. And morally you are free, cousin.”