“To what end,—with what view?” said the girl, suddenly and almost haughtily.
“Now that you ask me in that tone, May, I scarcely know. I suppose I meant to show him how inconsiderate, how impossible his hopes were; that there was nothing in his station or prospects that could warrant this presumption. I suppose I had something of this sort on my mind, but I own to you now, your haughty glance has completely routed all my wise resolutions.”
“Perhaps you speculated on the influence of that peculiar knowledge of his family history you appear to be possessed of?” said May, with some pique.
“Perhaps so,” was the dry rejoinder.
“And which you do not mean to confide to me?” said the girl, proudly.
“I have not said so. So long as you maintained that Mr. Layton was to you nothing beyond a mere acquaintance, my secret, as you have so grandly called it, might very well rest in my own keeping. If, however, the time were come that he should occupy a very different place in your regard—”
“Instead of saying 'were come,' Loo, just say, 'If the time might come,” said May, timidly.
“Well, then, 'if the time might come,' I might tell all that I know about him.”
“But then it might be too late. I mean, that it might come when it could only grieve, and not guide me.”
“Oh, if I thought that, you should never know it! Be assured of one thing, May: no one ever less warred against the inevitable than myself. When I read, 'No passage this way,' I never hesitate about seeking another road.”