She lifted her eyes to his, then raised her hand.
He took it, and his own closed round it with a quick, almost painful grasp.
“You say ‘yes!’” he said, then he dropped her hand as if some hidden pain had overmastered him, and sprang, like a wild animal breaking his bonds, to his feet. “Bertie is a happy man!” he said, almost hoarsely, turning away his head.
Her hand fell into her lap, her face grew white, her eyes expanded with a look of doubt, dread, horror.
“Bertie!” she breathed.
He turned slowly, and she saw that his face was as white as her own, and reflected something of her own horror. “Yes, Bertie,” he said, almost sternly, as if struggling against some terrible impulse. “It is of Bertie—Lord Granville—I have been speaking. It is for him I have been pleading.”
“For—him!” she panted, her bosom heaving, her hands clinching spasmodically.
“Yes,” he went on, more hurriedly. “He has loved you since you were playmates, loved you with all his heart and soul, so passionately that he feared, dreaded even to tell you, lest you should make light of it! Why do you look at me so? Are you angry? God knows it was unwillingly enough that I did it! I would sooner—but he won me over! I was mad to promise him, but I did so, and——Miss Vanley!—Olivia!”—and he drew nearer—“did you think”—his breath came fast, a light, almost fierce, flashed in his eyes—“did you think——Heavens! I can’t speak it!”
She had found nerve and strength—the strength which is born of shame. All her soul seemed burning with the shame of the mistake she had made; every nerve throbbed.
“I—I”—she panted—“I don’t understand. Of course it was—Bertie.”