“I was thinking of what occurred before I met Sir Brook,” said she, looking up, and with her eyes now widely opened, and a nostril distended as she spoke. “I was thinking of an incident of the morning. I have told you that when I reached the cottage where Sir Brook lived, I found that he was absent, and would not return till a late hour. Tired with my long walk from the station, I wished to sit down and rest before I had determined what to do, whether to await his arrival or go back to town. I saw the door open, I entered the little sitting-room, and found myself face to face with Major Trafford.”
“Lionel Trafford?”
“Yes; he had come by that morning's packet from England, and gone straight out to see his friend.”
“He was alone, was he?”
“Alone! there was no one in the house but ourselves.”
Sewell shrugged his shoulders, and said, “Go on.”
The insult of his gesture sent the blood to her face and forehead, and for an instant she seemed too much overcome by anger to speak.
“Am I to tell you what this man said to me? Is that what you mean?” said she, in a voice that almost hissed with passion.
“Better not, perhaps,” replied he, calmly, “if the very recollection overcame you so completely.”
“That is to say, it is better I should bear the insult how I may than reveal it to one who will not resent it.”