She carried me off, almost forcibly. She was exceedingly displeased. Four days, and never to have come or written! She said it was slighting me and insulting the family.
“A man, too, of whose antecedents and connections we knew nothing. He may be a mere adventurer—a penniless Scotch adventurer; Francis always said he was.”
“Francis is—” But I could not stay to speak of him, or to reply to Penelope's bitter words. All I thought was how to get back to Max, and entreat him to tell me what had happened. He would tell me. He loved me. So, without any feeling of “proper pride,” as Penelope called it, I writhed myself out of her grasp, ran hack to Doctor Urquhart, and took possession of his arm, my arm, which I had a right to.
“Is that you, Theodora?”
“Yes, it is I.” And then I said, I wanted him to go home with me, and tell me what had happened.
“Better not; better go home with your sister.”
“I had rather stay here. I mean to stay here.”
He stopped, took both my hands, and forced a smile:—“You are the determined little lady you always were; but you do not know what you are saying. You had better go and leave me.”
I was sure then some great misery was approaching us. I tried to read it in his face. “Do you—” did he still love me; I was about to ask, but there was no need. So my answer, too, was brief and plain.
“I never will leave you as long as I live.”