His hand remained poised above his open box; he looked up quickly, and repeated in an expressionless tone, “Rochdale.”
She was conscious of a heightening of the color in her cheeks. She said defiantly, “Of Feldenhall!”
He inclined his head in a gesture betokening nothing more than an indifferent civility, but she was very sure that he knew her history. She watched him inhale his snuff, and suddenly said, “You are correct in what you are thinking, sir: I am the daughter of a man who, between unlucky speculation and the gaming table, came to ruin, and shot himself.”
If she had expected to embarrass him, she was doomed to disappointment. He restored his snuffbox to his pocket, remarking merely, “I should not have supposed it to have been necessary for Miss Rochdale of Feldenhall to pursue the calling of a governess, whatever her father’s misfortunes may have been.”
“My dear sir, I have not a penny in the world but what I have earned!” she said tartly.
“I can readily believe it, but you are not, I fancy, without relatives.”
“Again you are correct! But I am the oddest creature! If I must be a drudge, as you have described me, I prefer to receive a wage for my labors!”
“You are certainly unlucky in your relatives,” he commented.
“Well,” she said candidly, “I cannot quite blame them, after all. It is no light matter to have a penniless girl foisted onto one, I am sure. And one, moreover, to whose name a disagreeable stigma is attached. You yourself know something of what it means to be whispered about. You should be able to understand my resolve not to cause either my relatives or my friends embarrassment. You will say that I might have called myself by some other name! I might perhaps have done so had I had less pride.”
“I should not say any such thing,” he answered calmly. “I will agree, however, that you have a great deal of pride—and some of it false.”