"Let him be angry," said Aldyth, warmly. "And, Guy whatever you do, never try to make love to me again."
They were at the gate. Miss Lorraine stood at the open door looking for them. They hurried up the path and went inside. Guy lingered in the hall, divesting himself of his overcoat. Aldyth lighted her bedroom candle at once.
"You must be tired, auntie," she said; "we will talk it over to-morrow—good-night, Guy."
And she went up stairs without saying snore.
A bright little fire had been kindled in her room. Aldyth threw off her cloak and sat down before the fire. Her mind was in a confusion of shame and indignation, and a pain she could not understand. It was horrid of Guy to say what he had. He might have known better. Her face burned as she thought of the indignity she had received. She felt keenly annoyed both with Guy and with her great-uncle.
"But it can never be," she said to herself. "Uncle cannot settle that for me. Thank God, no one can force me into a marriage. Marry Guy! Never! I would rather die! Nothing shall make me marry a man I cannot love and reverence. I will content myself with no union that falls short of my ideal of what marriage should be. Rather than that I will remain single all my life. I am not afraid of being an old maid like auntie. Hers is by no means an unhappy life."
Here Aldyth's eyes, looking upwards, met the glance of her mother looking down on her from the portrait on the mantelshelf. The next minute a mist of tears dimmed Aldyth's vision.
"If only she were here, I could tell her," she murmured. "I shrink from speaking of it to auntie, but to mother it would be so different. I know she would feel as I do about it. One can always be sure of one's mother."
[CHAPTER XI.]
CHRISTMAS AT WYNDHAM.