“Why were you so scornful that night?” asked he, leaning toward her. “But no! When I come to think of it, it was not scorn, really; it was contempt!”
“Oh, please!” she begged, lifting her eyes, imploringly.
“Tell me,” insisted he. “There was a reason for it. You had never seen me before. And it could hardly have been a sudden aversion. It was too complete for that.”
The color was still deep in her face; her slim hands were clasping and unclasping nervously. But while her voice was low and her manner confused, her eyes were brave.
“It was because of your friend, Balmacenso. When Mr. Austin wrote the letter urging you to come to New York, the man answered asking what was to be his—his reward.”
“And your guardian replied—?” eagerly.
If it were possible the exquisite color in her cheeks deepened.
“He sent Anna’s portrait, and mine. He offered either of us in marriage. To give him peace we had consented to this. I—I was the one selected; but the reward was, apparently, not great enough for Balmacenso.”
“Not great enough!”
“He wanted money as well.”