“Yes, yes, I am coming. If you would write to me, Miss Courtenay, any of your doubts—if you would allow me to write to you.”
“What for, Sir? I have no doubts. I don’t certainly see how all this came about; nor—not having Mr. Grenfell’s acquaintance, who was with my brother—am I likely to find out; but I know quite as much as I care to know.”
“You suspect—I see what you suspect,” said Mr. M’Kinlay, hoping by one clever dash to achieve the full measure of her confidence.
“What is it I suspect?” asked she, with an air of innocent curiosity.
“You suspect,” said he, slowly, while he looked intently into her eyes at the time—“you suspect that Sir Gervais means by adopting this child to make some sort of a reparation to Luttrell.”
“A what, Sir?” said she, opening her eyes to almost twice the usual size, while her nostrils dilated with passion. “What did you dare to mean by that word?”
“My dear Miss Courtenay, I am miserable, the most wretched of men, if I have offended you.”
“There’s eleven now striking, Sir, and we may as well send the horses back,” cried the postilion, sulkily.
“There, Sir, you hear what he says; pray don’t be late on my account. Good-by. I hope you’ll have no more disasters. Good-by.”
For a moment he thought to hasten after her, and try to make his peace; but great interests called him back to town, and, besides, he might in his confusion only make bad worse. It was a matter of much thought, and so, with a deep sigh, he stepped into the chaise and drove away, with a far heavier heart than he had carried from the porch of the cottage.