“Do you dare to stand there and tell me that you are Mr. Harrington’s friend?” she asked in low distinct tones. “You, the writer of articles in the ‘Daily Standard,’ calling him a fool and a charlatan? You, who have done your very best to defeat him in this election? Indeed, it is too absurd!” She laughed aloud in utter scorn, and then turned to continue her way.
Vancouver turned a shade paler than was natural with him, and looked down. He was very much frightened, for he was a coward.
“Miss Thorn,” he said, “I am sorry you should believe such calumnies. I give you my word of honor that I have never either written or spoken against Mr. Harrington. He is one of my best friends.”
Joe did not answer; she did not even look at him, but walked on in silence. He did not dare to speak again, and as they reached the corner of the Public Garden he lifted his hat.
“I am quite sure that you will find you have misjudged me, Miss Thorn,” he said, with a grieved look. “In the mean while I wish you a very good morning.”
“Good-morning,” said Joe, without looking at him; and she passed on, full of indignation and wrath.
To tell the truth, she was so much delighted at having spoken her mind for once, that she had not a thought of any possible consequences. The delight of having dealt Vancouver such a buffet was very great, and she felt her heart beat fast with a triumphant pleasure.
But Vancouver turned and went away with a very unpleasant sensation in, him. He wished with all his might that he had not left the comfortable bay window of the Somerset Club that morning, and more than all he wished he could ascertain how Joe had come to know of his journalistic doings. As a matter of fact, what she had said concerning Pocock’s efforts against John in the election had been meant in a most general way. But Vancouver thought she was referring to his interview with Ballymolloy, and that she understood the whole matter. Of course, there was nothing to be done but to deny the accusations from beginning to end; but they nevertheless had struck deep, and he was thoroughly alarmed. When he left the club he had had no intention of going to see Harrington; the idea had formed itself while talking with her. But now, again, he felt that he could not go. He had not the courage to face the man he had injured, principally because he strongly suspected that if Joe knew what he had done, John Harrington most likely knew it too.
He was doubly hit. He would have been less completely confused and frightened if the attack had come from Sybil Brandon; but he had had vague ideas of trying to marry Joe, and he guessed that any such plan was now hopelessly out of the question. He turned his steps homeward, uncertain what to do, and hoping to find counsel in solitude.
He took up the letters and papers that lay on his study table, brought by the mid-day post. One letter in particular attracted his attention, and he singled it out and opened it. It was dated from London, and had been twelve days on its way.