“Lady Ferringhall, I love your sister.”
“You what?” she repeated incredulously.
“I love your sister.”
Lady Ferringhall sat with half closed eyes and clenched teeth. Brute! Fool! To have come to her on such an errand. She felt a hysterical desire to strike him, to burst out crying, to blurt out the whole miserable truth. The effort to maintain her self-control was almost superhuman.
“But—your people!” she gasped. “Surely Lady Ennison would object, even if it were possible. And the Duke, too—I heard him say that a married secretary would be worse than useless to him.”
“The difficulties on my own side I can deal with,” he answered. “I am not dependent upon any one. I have plenty of money, and the Duke will not be in the next Cabinet. My trouble is with your sister.”
Lady Ferringhall was conscious of some relief.
“She has refused to listen to you?”
“She has behaved in a most extraordinary manner,” he answered. “We parted—that night the best of friends. She knew that I cared for her, she had admitted that she cared for me. I suppose I was a little idiotic—I don’t think we either of us mentioned the future, but it was arranged that I should go the next afternoon and have tea with her. When I went I was refused admittance. I have since received a most extraordinary letter from her. She offers me no explanation, permits me absolutely no hope. She simply refuses to see or hear from me again. I went to the theatre that night. I waited for her at the back. She saw me, and, Lady Ferringhall, I shall never forget her look as long as I live. It was horrible. She looked at me as though I were some unclean thing, as though my soul were weighted with every sin in the calendar. I could not have spoken to her. It took my breath away. By the time I had recovered myself she had gone. My letters are returned unopened, her maid will not even allow me across the doorstep.”
“The explanation seems to me to be reasonably simple,” Annabel said coldly. “You seem to forget that my sister is—married.”