Her voice shook, as she uttered this heroic falsehood.
He gazed at her with mournfulness; a tear rolled down his cheek; his heart swelled as he sobbed out,—
"My poor child! my poor child!"
He dared not undeceive her, dared not tell her what he knew.
She saw that she was not believed, but little did she know the mournful pity with which her supposed credulity filled him.
It was a relief to her when the dinner-bell rang, and put an end to their interview.
He saw her depart, and sat sighing deeply, wholly bewildered at the inextricable difficulties of his position; and when Mrs. Vyner came in, and chatted away about the opera, to which they were going that night, as if nothing whatever had occurred, he almost felt as if he had just awakened from a dream-troubled sleep.
CHAPTER VIII.
THE CRISIS.
Quelle nouvelle a frappé mon oreille!
Quel feu mal étouffé dans mon cœur se réveille!
Quel coup de foudre ô ciel! et quel funeste avis!
RACINE.—Phèdre.