“Yes, Mr. Sutherland.”
“Is it because I was rather late last night.”
“Rather late, Mr. Sutherland?”
Miss Talbot showed no excitement. With her, the thermometer, in place of rising under the influence of irritation, steadily sank.
“I cannot make myself a prisoner on parole, you know, Miss Talbot. You must leave me my liberty.”
“Oh, yes, Mr. Sutherland. Take your liberty. You’ll go the way of all the rest. It’s no use trying to save any of you.”
“But I’m not aware that I am in any particular want of saving, Miss Talbot.”
“There it is!—Well, till a sinner is called and awakened, of course it’s no use. So I’ll just do the best I can for you. Who can tell when the Spirit may be poured from on high? But it’s very sad to me, Mr. Sutherland, to see an amiable young man like you going the way of transgressors, which is hard. I am sorry for you, Mr. Sutherland.”
Though the ice was not gone yet, it had begun to melt under the influences of Hugh’s good-temper, and Miss Talbot’s sympathy with his threatening fate. Conscience, too, had something to do with the change; for, much as one of her temperament must have disliked making such a confession, she ended by adding, after a pause:
“And very sorry, Mr. Sutherland, that I showed you any bad temper last night.”