With emotionless precision, he replied, “At my mother's death—”
She interposed a soft exclamation.
“At my mother's death there will come to me by reversion, five or six thousand pounds. When my father dies, he may possibly bequeath his property to me. On that I cannot count.”
Veritable tears were in her eyes. Was she affecting to weep sympathetically in view of these remote contingencies?
“You will not pretend that you know me now, Percy,” she said, trying to smile; and she had recovered the natural feminine key of her voice. “I am mercenary, you see; not a mercenary friend. So, keep me as a friend—say you will be my friend.”
“Nay, you had a right to know,” he protested.
“It was disgraceful—horrible; but it was necessary for me to know.”
“And now that you do know?”
“Now that I know, I have only to say—be as merciful in your idea of me as you can.”
She dropped her hand in his, and it was with a thrill of dismay that he felt the rush of passion reanimating his frozen veins.