Keener than this surprise, however, was her sense of humiliation at the implacable offence which Lord Hurdly had taken at his heir’s proposed marriage with herself. That he had wished Horace to marry she knew; it was therefore the woman whom he had chosen that Lord Hurdly resented.
She rose to her feet, feeling herself giddy, and knowing that she was white with agitation. Her one idea was to get away—to escape the scrutiny of the intense gaze which was fixed upon her.
“I must go. I beg your pardon for coming,” she said, with a proud coldness, reaching for her wrap.
“You must not go. I owe you endless thanks for coming, and I will show you that you have to congratulate yourself also on this interview. If you went now, you would defeat all the good that may come of it. Sit down, I beg of you, and hear me out.”
His manner was not only urgent, it was also kind, and nothing could have been more respectful than his every look and tone.
Bettina sat down again and waited.
“What is it that has shocked you?” he said. “Is it because of your great love for Horace—or is it his for you which you are thinking of most?”
“I do not see that I am bound to answer you that question,” said Bettina, proudly. “My reasons are sufficient for myself.”
“You are in no way bound, my dear young lady, but you would be wise to answer me. I have every disposition to act as your friend in this matter, and you would be making a mistake to turn away from me without hearing what I have to say. If you are imagining that the young fellow with whom you have an engagement of marriage would be rendered inconsolable by the loss of you, when it would be made up to him by the possession of a fortune, perhaps you overestimate things.”
“What things?” she said, still cold and withheld in her manner, her pale face very set.