“He knows more than you think. But we must talk no more about him.” She rolled together her canvas and reels; and then suddenly, with passionate inconsequence, “Poor, poor George!” she cried.
Roger watched her a moment; then he said bitterly, “You disappoint me.”
“You must have formed great hopes of me!” she answered.
“I confess I had.”
“Say good by to them then, Roger. If this is wrong, I am all wrong!” She spoke with a proud decision, which was very becoming; she had never yet come so near being beautiful. In the midst of his passionate vexation Roger admired her. The scene seemed for a moment a bad dream, from which, with a start, he might wake up to tell her he loved her.
“Your anger gives an admirable point to your remarks. Indeed, it gives a beauty to your face. Must a young lady be in the wrong to be attractive?” he went on, hardly knowing what he said. But a burning blush in her cheeks recalled him to a kind of self-abhorrence. “Would to God,” he cried, “your abominable cousin had never come between us!”
“Between us? He is not between us. I stand as near you, Roger, as I ever did. Of course George will go away immediately.”
“Of course! I am not so sure. He will, I suppose, if he is asked.”
“Of course I shall ask him.”
“Nonsense. You will not enjoy that.”