“If he does,”—she leaned back again,—“he will be refused.”
“Anne!”
“Refused.”
“You are mad.”
“Perhaps. At any rate, that is what will happen to him if he puts his question to-morrow.”
“But,” said her step-mother with a gasp, “you have just said that you are undecided?”
“I am. I may veer round. I protest nothing, except that to-morrow shall not bind me.”
Lady Dalrymple rose, feeling that the situation was more critical than she had imagined, so critical, indeed, that she began to fear she had said too much. She had never understood Anne, for which she was not to blame; at this moment she felt herself face to face with a sphinx, and looked askance. Luck, rather than tact, led her to add—
“Well, it is your own concern, no others,” and to wish good-night.
Anne sat still where she had been left, thought busy. She smiled at her own clear understanding of the position, and perceiving Lord Milborough working through Lord Arthur upon Lady Dalrymple, recognised that this interview was intended as a probe before he ventured on the momentous question. Her fencing of the past two days had doubtless left him uneasy. She herself had foreseen fresh difficulties the next day, and was proportionably relieved by the conviction that after what she had just announced she would be left unmolested. Would Wareham speak? He should have the opportunity, and if—if—he succeeded in carrying her heart captive, she believed herself capable of marrying him, and renouncing more brilliant prospects. No one, it was certain, had attracted and piqued her as he had.