“I hope I’m not disturbing you,” he said, “but I’ve been sent here by—by somebody else—by Southerley, in fact, with a message which I hardly dare to give.”
Before he was half-way through the speech the lady had looked away; and from the expression of her face he could guess that she had an uneasy suspicion as to the nature of his errand.
“Then why give it,” said she, quickly, in a slightly tremulous voice, “if it’s of no use, and if it’s painful to you?”
“Because I must; because I’ve promised. Forgive me if I’m clumsy over it. The fact is the fellow’s lost his head; I think perhaps he knows there’s not much hope for him; I myself have told him there’s not. But he persists in hoping, hoping, or rather he’s got into such a state that he can’t rest till he’s got a definite answer, even if it’s the wrong one. He’s in love with you, head over ears in love, and he wants to know if you could ever care for him.”
Although he knew that she must have guessed what was coming, Miss Merriman pretended to feel surprised. But it was a poor, worried sort of pretence, without either nature or sincerity.
“Why, it’s absurd,” she said quickly. “What does he know of me? I never heard anything so ridiculous.”
And then there was a short pause, during which she sat very still.
“You’re not offended?” said Bayre, gently.
“Offended!” She just got out the word and then broke down into a flood of tears.
Bayre was appalled. To see a woman cry was a dreadful thing at any time; but to feel that he had opened the floodgates himself, and when he ought to have known better, was a thought of unspeakable horror.