"I can get it. Master keeps it hanging up in the counting-house, but I can get it." Durban grinned and nodded, and then was about to go away, when he suddenly stopped, and his dark face grew serious. "One thing tell me, missy, and do not be angry."
"I could never be angry with you, Durban. What is it?"
"Do you love Mr. Paslow, missy?"
"Yes," replied Beatrice without hesitation. She knew that whatever she said to her faithful servant would never be repeated by him.
"And does he love you?"
This time she coloured. "I think so--I am not sure," was her faint reply, as she cast down her eyes.
Durban came a step nearer. "Does he love any one else?" he asked.
Beatrice raised her head sharply, and sent a flaming glance towards the questioner. "What do you mean?"
"If he doesn't love you, does he love any one else?" persisted Durban.
Beatrice twisted her hands. "I am sure he loves me, and no one else!" she cried passionately. "I can see it in his eyes--I can read it in his face. Yet he--yet he--oh!" she broke off, unwilling to remark upon Paslow's strange, wavering wooing, to a servant, even though that servant was one who would readily have died to save her a moment's pain. "Do you think he loves any one else?" she asked evasively.