“What, have I worn my heart upon my sleeve?” he said, giving a little laugh. “Have you read my secret?”
“Your secret? Do you really fancy that there is any one in this neighbourhood to whom your secret is still a secret? I'm convinced that the servants have been talking about nothing else for the past fortnight. Jevons, the butler, is too well trained to give any sign, but you may depend upon it that the housemaids nudge each other every time you call. You see, they know that you cannot possibly be calling to see me, and therefore they assume—Psha! what's the need to talk more about it? I can understand everything there is to be understood in this matter, except why you should come to tell me about it. What concern is it of mine?”
He looked at her rather reproachfully. He was not accustomed to hear her talk in such a way. She had accustomed him to gentleness and words in which there was no tone of reproach. He felt disappointed in her now.
“I felt sure that you would be at least interested in—in”—
“In—shall we call it the wondrous workings of Fate? If you think that I am not interested in Fate you are greatly mistaken.”
“I don't like to hear you talk in that strain, Agnes. It jars upon me. You were always so gracious—so sweet.”
“How do you know what I was?”
“Cannot I remember you long ago?”
“I do believe we did meet now and again before you left England. What a memory you have, to be sure!”
He rose from his chair and stood beside her.