Robert came first, cracking his riding-whip and singing, and assuming a jauntiness belied by the expression of his face. He raised his hat again as he came through the ruined window, and greeted Freda with much deference. He made a feint of holding out his hand, but the young lady took no notice of it.
“I am afraid,” began he, in a deprecating tone, “that our acquaintance did not begin in the most auspicious possible manner, Miss Mulgrave.”
“No, and I did not expect to see you again.”
Freda was far too unsophisticated to be otherwise than cruelly direct of speech. Robert Heritage, however, was not easily disconcerted.
“But if the reason of my daring to appear before you again is to make my peace in the humblest manner?”
“There is no need to be humble to me. You said so the last time I saw you.”
“Pray forget everything I said then, and let us begin afresh. I had had a good deal of worry that day, and I spoke to you under a misapprehension.”
“I would rather have you remain under it, and not speak to me again.”
“You are very unforgiving.”
Freda hung her head. They used to tell her that at the convent. It was true too, she felt. She had never been able to humble herself to docile obedience—to the doctrine of forgiveness of enemies. Nothing could be wrong in those she loved, nothing right in those she did not love. And she did not love Robert Heritage. Guiltily, therefore, she said, after a minute’s pause: