“It surprised me.”
“Pray let me hear that you thought better of me than to believe it.”
“Better? Do you not present yourself as a symbol of friendship? And friendship is held to condone blunders.” She spoke teasingly.
“No, no. I telegraphed—” Suddenly he found it hard to explain why he had telegraphed. “He had a right to an explanation.” The words came out apologetically.
“And you were the deus ex machinâ. I told you you were a symbol of friendship.”
Coldness was in her voice, and Wareham, reader of hearts, believed he understood why she was dissatisfied.
“I have offended you. I read it in your eyes when you saw Hugh,” he said dismally.
“Oh, Hugh, Hugh!” She made the exclamation with impatience, and frowned.
He would have given worlds to ask why, if she were displeased, she did not dismiss her young lover, but dared not. Then she slowly let drop four words which set his blood leaping in wild bounds. “You might help me.”
Heavens, what did the words, the look she turned on him, mean? Reproach, encouragement, were both there. He stood stupidly, stunned by the delicious shock; conscience faltered, passion rushed to the attack. This appealing to him, this, as it were, holding out her hand—bliss!—ecstasy! Conscience panted out desperately, “And Honour?” and, once having thrust in her word, stood firm.