'Oh, you know not the cause,' she said sadly, as she shook her head.
'I do know, and so do others; but I have no right to question your actions or control your movements—no warrant for—God help me, Ida, I scarcely know what I say.'
'So it seems,' said she, a little haughtily.
'Oh, Ida, what is this man to you?' he asked, huskily.
'To me—who—what man?' she asked, with a bewildered air.
'He who is always hanging about you—he who detained you in that arbour last night, when you promised to meet me, and give me the answer I prayed for in yonder oriel.'
Astonishment, alarm, and anxiety pervaded the delicate coldness of her pure, pale face, and then a flush—the hectic of unwonted anger—crossed it.
'Jerry—Mr. Vane—are you mad?' she exclaimed. 'How dare you address me thus?'
'Mad—I fear so; but for the love of pity, Ida——'
'Well, sir.'