"You went away so suddenly the last time, I had no opportunity, then, to thank you for all that you did; and so, I do now—thank you, I mean! Also," a touch of prouder constraint in her tone, "I appreciate your over-generous proposal through Pierre Laroche; although, of course," her figure very straight, "I could not—it was impossible—to entertain it. But I am glad you were able to prove. You will understand—and," my lady ended quickly, "I thank you!"
He looked at her long. "It is I who am in your debt!"
"You?" Her brows lifted.
"Yes."
"I—don't think I quite understand." In spite of herself and her resolution, the proud eyes seemed to shrink from a nameless something in his gaze.
"Nor I! Nanette was talking with me last night!"
"Nanette!"
In words, direct, unequivocal, he told her what he had learned; and although my lady laughed, as at something absurd, and strove to maintain an unvarying mien, his eyes challenged evasion; demanded truth! At that moment the space where they stood seemed, perhaps, too small; to hem her very closely in—too closely—as, drawing back, she touched the hard rocky wall!
"Why?" Still endeavoring to regard him as if the charge could only be preposterous, too unreasonable to answer, she was, nevertheless, conscious of the flame on her face—tacit refutation of the denials in her eyes! "Why?" she repeated.
"That is just what I was asking myself when I saw you, my Lady."