“You know that Miss Nunn has gone down into Cumberland?” Barfoot was saying, his look bent upon her.
“Yes. I know.”
She tried to glance at him with a smile.
“To-morrow,” he pursued, “I am going there myself.”
“To Cumberland?”
“I shall see her, I hope. Perhaps she will only be angry with me.”
“Perhaps. But perhaps not.”
Her confusion would not be overcome. She felt a burning in her ears, on her neck. It was an agony of shame. The words she spoke sounded imbecile mutterings, which must confirm Barfoot in his worst opinion of her.
“If it is all in vain,” he continued, “then I shall say good-bye, and there’s an end.”
“I hope not—I should think—”