“No, no,” she entreated, almost abjectly, “I wish only the truth. Father Pope wishes only the truth. Tell me frankly, do you recognise these lines?”
With a great effort I subdued my emotion, and took the paper frigidly from her hand. It was folded at the following verse, which I had to bite my lips, pretending to read:—
“Thrice happy she who from thy kindling eye
Shall draw some spark to illuminate her breast,
A wistful wanderer between earth and sky,
With doubts of love’s true haven sore oppressed.”
“Do you recognise them?” she repeated.
“Yes, madam,” I acknowledged, looking up between reserve and defiance.
“You do?” she murmured, taken aback. “And it is your hand?”
“No, madam,” I answered quietly. “It is Miss Grant’s, but disguised.”