She gave me a shuddering sidelong glance. “He’s looking at me!”
He was placed with his back to us, holding a large Venetian hand-mirror, framed in chiselled silver, which he had taken from a shelf of antiquities, just at such an angle that he caught the reflexion of his sister’s person. It was evident that I too was under his attention, and was resolved I wouldn’t be suspected for nothing. “Miss Searle,” I said with urgency, “promise me something.”
She turned upon me with a start and a look that seemed to beg me to spare her. “Oh don’t ask me—please don’t!” It was as if she were standing on the edge of a place where the ground had suddenly fallen away, and had been called upon to make a leap. I felt retreat was impossible, however, and that it was the greater kindness to assist her to jump.
“Promise me,” I repeated.
Still with her eyes she protested. “Oh what a dreadful day!” she cried at last.
“Promise me to let him speak to you alone if he should ask you—any wish you may suspect on your brother’s part notwithstanding.” She coloured deeply. “You mean he has something so particular to say?”
“Something so particular!”
“Poor cousin!”
“Well, poor cousin! But promise me.”
“I promise,” she said, and moved away across the long room and out of the door.