With a swift, involuntary movement, Clodagh freed her hand.
"Clo, I have said too much! I have asked too much!"
"No, darling! No! No!"
"Then I've tired you? Clo, you're tired!" She caught Clodagh's hand again. "And you wanted to tell me something. Oh, I've been selfish! Won't you forgive me, and say it now?"
But Clodagh turned from her and walked to the writing-table—the table on which her father's miniature had rested the night before.
"No, I won't talk to-night, darling," she said, without looking round. "I—I think I have forgotten what I was going to say."
CHAPTER X
The key-note of Clodagh's character was impulse. She loved, she hated, she was generous, she was foolish, with a wide impulsiveness.
When Nance had spoken of her engagement, her unselfish joy and relief in the security it promised had aroused a renewed desire for self-sacrifice, as represented by confession of her weakness; but a moment later, when Nance had spoken of Milbanke's legacy—of her innocent joy in its existence—of her innocent desire for its possession—the wish had faltered. She had given her tacit agreement that the thousand pounds should be placed in Nance's hands—the thousand pounds, of which the greater portion had already gone to swell the coffers of London tradesmen or fill the pockets of her friends!
That was her position on the night of Nance's confidence; and on the following morning she woke with an oppressive sense that action must be taken in some direction.