“You carry it so far—fifty miles beyond the mark,” said he. “The man roughed you, and I taught him manners.”
“No!” she half screamed her interposition. “I repeat, he was in no way discourteous or disobliging to me. He offered me a seat at his table, and, heaven forgive me! I believe a bed in his house, that I might wait and be sure of seeing Nevil, because I was very anxious to see him.”
“All the same, you can’t go to the man.”
“I should have said so too, before my destiny touched me.”
“A certain dignity of position, my dear, demands a corresponding dignity of conduct: you can’t go.”
“If I am walking in the very eye of heaven, and feeling it shining on me where I go, there is no question for me of human dignity.”
Such flighty talk offended Lord Romfrey.
“It comes to this: you’re in want of a parson.”
Rosamund was too careful to hint that she would have expected succour and seconding from one or other of the better order of clergymen.
She shook her head. “To this, my dear lord: I have a troubled mind; and it is not to listen nor to talk, that I am in need of, but to act.”