Wareham was startled from his impassive attitude.
“What has given you that impression?”
“What? How can I tell you? If I were to say it was a woman’s intuition, you would laugh. So that I imagine it is owing to vague recollection of what I may have heard.”
“If that is all, I think you should disabuse yourself of the idea. Whoever was to blame, it was certainly not Mr Forbes.”
She looked at him mischievously, and remarked that he spoke so gravely of an indifferent matter that one might suppose he had an interest in it.
“I have not said that it was indifferent.”
“Oh!” Millie coloured, and said hastily—“I beg your pardon. I am very sorry. If I had dreamed that there was anything to make you care, I should not have tried to find out your opinion. Do you know, I should be really glad of a mackintosh.”
Wareham went to get it, but when he came back he reverted to the subject.
“Let me explain why I care. The man to whom Miss Dalrymple was engaged is my friend, and knowing as I do the circumstances of the case, I can’t stand hearing him reproached. I can’t explain the facts, simply because they are inexplicable, but I will ask you to take my word that no blame rests with him.”
“Oh no, I understand, I quite understand,” Millie stammered, wishing herself anywhere else. She was frightened, and could not find a jest with which to swing herself out of the difficulty. Her embarrassment made him think more kindly of her again.