‘Oh, don’t, don’t come back to that again, Horace!’ pleaded the other. ‘How can any one drive a girl into a life of scandalous immorality? It was in herself, dear. She took to it naturally, as so many women do. Remember that letter she wrote from Brussels, which I sent you a copy of—’
‘It was a forgery!’ thundered Horace. ‘I have asked her. She says she never wrote any such letter.’
‘Then she lies, as such creatures always do.’
Bitterness of apprehension overcame Mrs. Damerel’s prudence. With flashing eyes, she faced the young man and dared his wrath. As they stood thus, the two were astonishingly like each other, from forehead to chin.
‘It’s no use, I’m not going to quarrel with you, aunt. Think what you like of Miss. French, I know the truth about her.’
He slipped from the table, and moved away.
‘I will say no more, Horace. You are independent, and must have your own acquaintances. But after you are married—’
The other voice interrupted.
‘I had better tell you at once. I shall not marry Miss. Chittle. I am going to write this afternoon to break it off.’
Mrs. Damerel went pale, and stood motionless.