It is not so much that she has hesitated as he has not given her time to speak.
"Well, yes—Tom," says she. "He is my friend!"
"The best of all?" She is not looking at him now, so does not see the expression in his eyes. He is listening breathlessly for her answer, but she knows nothing. She is gazing idly, happily into the fire.
"At present," says she slowly. Then once again she leans across his knees, and looks up at him. "You know Tom is very fond of me—he loves me, I think."
Here Rylton lays his hands upon her wrists, grasping them hard.
"He loves you. He has told you so?"
"No. Why should he?" He lets her hands go. "I know it. He has loved me so many years; and perhaps—in many years"—she comes closer to him, and putting up one soft little hand, lays it on his cheek, and tries to turn his face to hers—"you will love me too!"
Sir Maurice springs to his feet, and, catching her hands, lifts her forcibly to hers.
"There, go," says he, as if choking. "Is that how you speak to him?"
"To him?"