“I understand. Hush! there needs not another word.”
Agatha began to hesitate. She had only wished to make him feel—to shake him from that rigid quietude which to her was so trying. She had not intended to wound him so.
“Are you angry with me?” she asked at length.
“No, not angry. No reproaches of yours can be more bitter than my own.”
She was just about to ask him what he meant—nay, she even considered whether her woman's pride might not stoop to draw aside the tight-pressed hands, entreating him to look up and forgive her and love her, when in burst Mrs. Thornycroft.
“Oh—so glad to catch you—have not a minute to spare, for James is waiting. Where is your husband?”
Mr. Harper had risen, and stood in the shadow, where his face was not easily visible. Agatha wondered to see him so erect and calm, while her own cheeks were burning, and every word she tried to utter she had to gulp down a burst of tears.
“Mr. Harper, it was you I wanted—to ask your decision about the house. A mere formality. But I thought I would just call as we went to grandmamma's, and then I can settle everything for you to-morrow morning.”
“You are very kind, but”—
“Oh, perhaps you would rather see the house yourself! Quite right. Of course you will take it!”