She was entirely willing he should bestow himself wherever he chose—even upon Miss Framley.
"I hope you don't think I would throw myself away upon a vulgar shoddyite like Miss Framley."
"Miss Framley is my guest, Major Ashton," said Grace, with quiet dignity. "It doesn't become me to hear any words to her discredit."
"I think I can penetrate your secret, Miss Dearborn," said Major Ashton, with a sneer. "You look with favor upon that poverty-stricken portrait painter with whom you so ostentatiously paraded early in the evening."
"You forget yourself, Major Ashton," said Grace, with chilling hauteur.
She dropped his arm, and left the conservatory unattended, her cheek flushed, and her heart stirred with indignation.
She came nearer to hating Major Ashton at that moment than ever before. He had insulted her, and though she was not one to make a scene, she was not likely soon to forgive or to forget it.
Yet there was something in his words which was not altogether displeasing. They let in a sudden light, by which she read her own heart, and, with a quicker pulsation, she was compelled to confess that she did feel an interest in the young artist.
Just then, too, lifting her eyes, she met the gaze of Frederic Vernon fixed upon her with an intensity which she could not fail to interpret.
"He loves me!" she thought, and the thought gave her no displeasure.