“It was my fault,” he whispered, humbly. “Forgive me.”
“I—I have nothing to forgive,” the girl said, unsteadily, still without looking up. “I must go, Lord Carthew.”
“If I were really Lord Carthew,” he said, “there might be some excuse. But I am not. By a freak of my friend’s, we had changed names for a while when that accident happened to me. But I never intended the trick to continue. It is true that he begged me, as a favor, to keep silence on the subject, especially before you. But, after my folly and imprudence, I must confess the truth. I cannot masquerade any longer. Miss Cranstoun, try to forgive me.”
“I have nothing to forgive.”
“You see,” he went on, unheeding, letting her hands go, and standing at some distance from her, “I was half-dreaming—weakness, I dare say, proceeding from the ridiculous semi-invalid position I’ve been in during the last eighteen hours. Suddenly, on opening my eyes, I saw a face, a very lovely woman’s face, close to me. It seemed a part of my dreams; I did not stop to consider who she was, and I kissed her.”
“You thought it was some one else, then?”
“I did not say so. But will you forgive me?”
“I forgive you. I understand; I was only a part of your dream. Please tell me again what you were saying just now. I could not quite grasp it. What is your real name?”
“Hilary Pritchard. Here,” he continued, fumbling with one hand in his pocket, “here are cards, letters, and papers, to prove it. No one who knows the Northborough family could suppose that I belong to it. But Lord Carthew was my college chum, and I like him as well almost as one man can like another. I am all the more sorry because I have annoyed a lady whom I know he very greatly admires.”
“So it is Lord Carthew I have been talking to all last evening and this morning,” Stella observed, reflectively. “That explains a great deal.”