It was Christina who answered him.
She was very pale, more like a white statue than a living woman, and her voice had a tone in it that Polly had never heard from her lips before.
“We thank you, Mr. Ambleton, my parents and I, for your wonderful kindness in burdening yourself with such a disagreeable duty, and, having thanked you, we have no more to say.”
Valentine Ambleton looked at her, and his lips curled.
“I see,” he said, in a low, quick tone, “I have made a mistake.”
“You have done more than made a mistake,” Christina Pennington said, coldly; “you have been guilty of intrusion, and unpardonable rudeness. I think the matter may rest there.”
He bent his head and moved away, but the mother, who had been a stunned listener to this conversation, suddenly realized all it meant.
“You must not go. You—you have given me a great shock. My husband and I—Polly, dear, run away—why are you here? This must not rest at such a point,” Mrs. Pennington said, conquering her agitation with dignity, “we must investigate the matter.”
Then a revelation was wrought in poor little Polly’s knowledge of her best loved sister’s nature.
Christina suddenly flashed crimson.