"They think the same of us, and perhaps do the laughing more loudly."
"Ah! let them," said Robert, not without contemptuous indignation, though his mind was far from the talk.
The sweat was on Edward's forehead. "In a few minutes it will be half-past—half-past eleven! I expect a friend; that makes me impatient. Mr. Eccles"—Edward showed his singular, smallish, hard-cut and flashing features, clear as if he had blown off a mist—"you are too much of a man to bear malice. Where is Dahlia? Tell me at once. Some one seems to be cruelly driving her. Has she lost her senses? She has:—or else she is coerced in an inexplicable and shameful manner."
"Mr. Blancove," said Robert, "I bear you not a bit of malice—couldn't if I would. I'm not sure I could have said guilty to the same sort of things, in order to tell an enemy of mine I was sorry for what I had done, and I respect you for your courage. Dahlia was taken from here by me."
Edward nodded, as if briefly assenting, while his features sharpened.
"Why?" he asked.
"It was her sister's wish."
"Has she no will of her own?"
"Very little, I'm afraid, just now, sir."
"A remarkable sister! Are they of Puritan origin?"