“Yes, perfectly,” he said slowly. “Monsieur de Ligny the French gentleman of whom Miss Marguerite so often talked to me, came last night, while Mr Vine was at your father’s, and he was persuading Louise to go with him, when I interfered and said she should not go till her father returned.”
“Yes?—well?” said Madelaine, watching him keenly.
“Well, there was a struggle, and I got the worst of it. That’s all.”
“That is not all!” cried Madelaine angrily. “Louise, what did she say?”
“Begged him—not to press her to go,” he said slowly and unwillingly, as if the words were being dragged out of him.
“Yes?”
“That is all,” he said, still in the same slow, half-dreamy way. “I heard no more. When I came to, the Vines were helping me, and—”
“Louise?”
“Louise was gone.”
“Mr Leslie,” said Madelaine gently, as in a gentle, sympathetic way she laid her hand upon his arm. “You seem to have been a good deal hurt. I will not press you to speak. I’m afraid you hardly know what you say. This cannot be true.”