In the second that she raised her eyes, she took in, as if by a species of mental photography, the handsome face with its clear and now eager eyes, the graceful figure, in its suit of gray cords that seemed to be part and parcel of the wearer, and the air—distinguished, patrician, it is so difficult to describe it, which is the birthright of the gentleman—the air which the parvenu, though he count his gold by the million, cannot purchase.
“You have come!” he said, raising his hat. “I am so glad, so grateful, Miss Marlowe.”
“You would not be, Lord Neville, if you knew how sorry I am to be here,” she said, and her wonderful eyes met his ardent gaze steadily and with a gravity that lent a subtle and altogether new charm to her face.
His face fell.
“Sorry?” he said, regretfully.
“Yes,” she said; “very, very sorry. Lord Neville, you should not have written me that note; it was wrong.”
“Let me tell you,” he said, eagerly, pleadingly; “I feared you would say this——”
“I did not intend to come,” she said, as if he had not spoken. “I meant to pass the note by unanswered. But it seemed—well, yes, unkind. And I tried to write, but——” her brows came together, “I could not please myself. It is so hard to write such a letter for the first time in one’s life, and at last I decided to meet you, that I might tell you how wrong you were, and that your note showed me—ah! so plainly—that we must not meet again—that, in short, Lord Neville, our acquaintance must cease!”
She actually half rose, as if she were about to leave him then and there; but he put out his hand pleadingly, without daring to touch her, and implored her to wait.
“Don’t go—for a moment, only a moment!” he pleaded. “Let me speak in my defense. Do listen to me! I only ask you to listen to me!”