He was absolutely pleading—he could scarcely believe it of himself. But he wanted so to have her set him right! He wanted her to do it of her own accord—show that she was glad to be able to do it at last. There was no longer any question of saving Garda; Garda had, in her own eyes at least, saved herself. He waited for his answer.
She had given him a frightened glance as he spoke, the expression of his face seemed to take her by surprise, and break down her self-possession. She rose, murmuring something about being obliged to go.
"You are sure you have nothing to say to me, Margaret?" he asked, as she went towards the door.
"Say? What do you mean?"
"I am giving you a chance to explain, I long to have you explain. I find myself unable to believe—" He stopped. Then he began again. "I am sure there is some solution—If I have not always liked your course in other matters, at least I have never thought this of you. You know what I witnessed that afternoon, as I sat there in the woods; one word will be enough—tell me what I must think of it—and of you." He was trying her to the utmost now.
A painful red flush had darkened her face, but, except for that, she did not flinch. "You must think what you please," she answered.
Then she escaped; she had opened the door, and now she went rapidly down the hall towards her own room.
He stood gazing. If he had not known she was innocent, he should have set down her tone to defiance; it was exactly the sort of low-voiced defiance which he had expected from her when he had supposed—what he had supposed.
But his suppositions had been entirely false. Did she still wish him to believe that they were true!
It appeared so.