"You haven't told me why yet," he said, after a pause.
Margaret bit her lip, and was silent for a second or two, then she said:
"Lord Leyton, there should be, can be, no acquaintance between you and me——"
"Now stop!" he said. "I know what you are going to say; you are going to talk some nonsense about my being a viscount and you being something different, and all that! As if you were not a lady, and as if any one could be better than that! Yes, they can, by George! and you are better, for you are an artist! A difference between us—yes, yes, I should think there was, between a useless fellow like myself and a clever, beautiful——"
"My lord!" said Margaret, flushing, then looking at him with her brows drawn together.
"I beg your pardon, I beg your pardon; I do indeed! But, all the same," he said, defiantly, "it's true! You are beautiful, but I don't rely on that. I say an artist and a lady is the equal of any man or woman alive, and if that's the reason you fling my flower back to me——"
"I didn't fling it, my lord," said Margaret, gravely.
"I'm a brute!" he said, penitently. "The difference between a brute and—and an angel! That's it. No, you didn't fling it, but it's just as if you had, isn't it now?"
"You will take back the flower, Lord Leyton, please?" she almost pleaded. "I don't want to fling it, as you say, out of the window."
He stood looking at her.