As he spoke he took a sheet of foolscap paper, and a fresh dip of ink, as if to make notes of her business.
“I came to ask you, John Tregenna,” she said at last, in answer to his inquiring look, “whether the report that I have heard is true.”
“Report? True?” he said. “Really, Miss Mullion—”
“I have heard,” she continued, speaking in a slow, painful way, every word sounding harsh and metallic, while her face was fixed and stony in its immobility—“I have heard a report that you are—to be married—to Rhoda Penwynn.”
“Well, really, Miss Mullion,” he said, smiling, “this is a strange question;” and he looked at her with an amused, perfectly unruffled expression.
“Is it true?” she said, in a louder voice, which Tregenna knew must reach the outer office.
“Well, really—it is somewhat strange that you should come and ask me such a question, Miss Mullion; but, since you have asked it—yes, I am.”
Madge raised her veil as he made this avowal, but it seemed to give her no shock; there was no trace of emotion in her face, as she gazed straight in his eyes.
“And what of me?” she said at last.
“I beg your pardon?”