“How—how dare you come here?” she said at last, her indignation at his presence, at his offer of his hand, overwhelming for the moment her anxiety respecting Esmeralda.
“How dare I? For God’s sake, what do you mean?” he exclaimed. “Why do you look at me like this—why do you talk to me! What about Esmeralda? She is here, isn’t she?” And he looked round vaguely.
Lady Wyndover approached him unsteadily, her eyes distended.
“Do you mean to say that you don’t know?” she whispered. “Are you trying to deceive me, to—to brazen it out? You know that she is not here!”
“Not here? I saw in the papers that she was here—ill. Where is she, then?”
“You know!” she repeated, fiercely. “You are acting! Norman, you are a scoundrel!”
He scarcely started. Just as she had deemed Trafford mad, so Norman deemed her. What other explanation of her manner and words could there be?
“What is it you mean, Lady Wyndover?” he said, almost soothingly, certainly without any resentment—as yet. “Tell me as quickly as you can why you call me—what was it?—a scoundrel?”
His manner, the steady regard of his blue, honest eyes staggered her. She sunk on to a couch, and pressed her hand to her heart.