“Your what?” she questioned, sharply. “What’s this about the Freule van Trossart? You’re going to make her miserable, are you, as you did me?” She started up, clapping her hands. “No, you won’t,” she cried. “No, you won’t. I see. He’s gone and told her all about it. Oh, I love him for that!”
“Who? He!” exclaimed Gerard. “Do you mean to say you’ve gone noising our shame about to strangers?”
The words stung her to sudden passion.
“Our shame?” she cried. “Our shame? My shame, you mean. My shame, as Christian laws go in Christian lands. And who are you, of all men, to taunt me with it? I told your brother, if you want to know. And he went and told the girl you were trying to catch, did he? Oh, I’m glad of that; I’m glad of that!”
Gerard sat for some moments with bent brows and clinched fists. His still stare frightened her. She sank into her seat cowed.
“How did you meet my brother?” he asked, at last. His voice was hoarse.
“You passed the shop with him one morning,” she answered, humbly. “I recognized him by your description. And when going to my dinner later on, I met him in the Park alone. I told him everything in half a dozen minutes. That day I was desperate. I asked him if he could do nothing to help me to make you marry me. I had some wild idea your family might. I had never come across any of them. I probably never should have such a chance again.”
“And what did my brother say?” asked Gerard.
“He said he would do what he could. He didn’t think he could do much. I don’t think he likes you, Gerard.” She spoke quite submissively, and, as she finished, her eyes stole across to the looking-glass to arrange a little bow at her neck.
“Oh no,” replied Gerard, furiously. “He’s too good to like me. His little peccadilloes are far away, and black.”