Alice good-naturedly came to his assistance. "Doris," she said, in her brisk, businesslike way, "sit down and have a chat with your friend while I go over there to the chrysanthemum house to look at the flowers. I do so love chrysanthemums."
"And so do I," said Doris quickly. "I will come too."
"Doris!" Bernard's exclamation was pitiful.
Alice felt for him, but concluding Doris did not wish to be left, she said briskly, "We will all go there. Come on."
Accordingly they all went to look at the chrysanthemums, amongst which they talked mere commonplaces for a little while.
Bernard was miserably disappointed. Doris was uncomfortable and frightened--the shadow of her father's sin seemed to rest over her, filling her with shame. She did not know whether Bernard was prosecuting her father or not, and feared that he might say something which would betray the wretched secret to Alice. Even if he regretted the way he shrank from her when hearing of her father's misappropriation of his money, or if he wished, as seemed evident, to renew their former relations, she could not and would not ruin his life, as his mother had said she would ruin it by marrying him. Poor he was, and shabby. Not a detail of this escaped her--his worn clothes and baggy trousers touched her deeply; but at least he bore an unblemished and honourable name. Was she to smirch it? Was she to bring to him, as his mother had said, a dowry of shame? No, no. His mother's words were still ringing in her ears.
Stung beyond endurance by the remembrance, Doris raised her head and confronted Bernard proudly.
"Mr. Cameron," she said, "you must see--I mean, do you think that it is quite right to--accompany us--when----"
"When I am not wanted," he suggested, bitterly.
"I did not say that exactly. But----"