"You are much better?"
"Thanks to you, very much; thanks to you!" and her little hand came out frankly, and was speedily swallowed up in his big palm.
"No thanks at all; that is--well, you know. Let us change the subject. I came to say--that--that--"
"You hesitate because you are afraid of hurting my feelings. I think I can understand. I have learnt the world--God knows in no easy school; you came to say that I had been long enough a pensioner on your charity, and now must make my own way. Isn't that it?"
"No, indeed; not, that is not entirely what I meant. You see--our meeting--so strange--"
"Strange enough for London and this present day. You found me starving, dying, and you took care of me; and you knew nothing of me--not even my name--not even my appearance."
There was a something harsh and bitter in her tone which Geoffrey had never remarked before. It jarred on his ear; but he did not further notice it. His eyes dropped a little as he said, "No, I didn't; I do not know your name."
She looked up at him from under her eyelids; and the harshness had all faded out of her voice as she said, "My name is Margaret Dacre." She stopped, and looked at him; but his face only wore its grave honest smile. Then she suddenly raised herself on the sofa, and looking straight into his face, said hurriedly, "You are a kind man, Mr. Ludlow; a kind, generous, honourable man; there are many men would have given me food and shelter--there are very few who would have done it unquestioning, as you have."
"You were my guest, Miss Dacre, and that was enough, though the temptation was strong. How one evidently born and bred a lady could have--"
"Ah, now," said she, smiling fainting, "you are throwing off your bonds, and all man's curiosity is at work."