"No. I only wished—" she hesitated, trying to force a smile, and then broke off suddenly—"Guy, do speak kindly to me. Don't look at me so strangely."
His answer came, brief and stern.
"I will speak, then. Miss Bellasys, on what authority from me did you venture to interfere in my concerns so far as to intercept my correspondence?"
She tried denial still; it was her way; she always would do it, even when it could avail nothing—perhaps to gain time.
"I don't know what you mean. I never—"
Livingstone interrupted her, with a curl of contempt on his lip.
"Stop, I beg of you. It is useless to stoop lower than you have done already. I have Willis's written confession here. Ah! I know your talents too well to accuse you without material proof."
She raised her head, haughtily enough now. There was something Spartan about that girl. She had such an utter recklessness of exposure—it was in failure that she felt the shame.
"At least you ought not to reproach me. You might guess my motive—my only one—without forcing me to confess it. Have I not gratified your pride enough already?"
"You know that is not the question," Guy answered, gravely. "Yet you are half right. I could not reproach you for any fair, honest move. In much, I own myself more guilty than you. But this is very different. Miss Bellasys, you must have distrusted greatly your own powers of fascination before you stooped to such cruel treachery."