"You are really shaken by fear," he said. "I know its signs, or rather those of dread. It is pure dread which has possession of you now. How unlike you, Anne! How unlike yourself you are at this moment!"
But she cared nothing for herself, nothing for the scorn in his voice (the jealous are often loftily scornful), and he saw that she did not.
"Whom do you fear? The maid?"
"Yes."
"What can she say?"
"I do not know; and yet—"
"Is it possible—can it be possible, Anne, that you are the person implicated, the so-called rival?"
"I do not know; and it is because I do not know that I am so much afraid," she answered, still in the same low whisper.
"But why should you take this possibility upon yourself? Ward Heathcote is no Sir Galahad, Heaven knows. Probably at this moment twenty women are trembling as you are trembling, fearing lest they be called by name, and forced forward before the world."
He spoke with anger. Anne did not contradict him, but she leaned her head upon her hand weariedly, and closed her eyes.