She stopped stock-still, noting the pallor of his face and the dark circles below his blue eyes. Then suddenly she smiled, and said, brightly, "Good-morning, Sir Charles."
"Is it good-morning to me, Deborah? Deborah, I make you my humblest apologies. I crave your for—"
She came down the last three steps with a changed expression. "We'll not speak of that," she said, slowly, in a perfectly frigid tone.
Thereupon she would have passed him, but he caught her suddenly by the delicate wrists. "Yes, we will speak of it, Debby. I will have it so. You shall grant me pardon, Debby."
"And why, sir, pray? Is my pardon at your command?"
"You'll forgive me because—because I love you, Deborah. You'll forget when you are become my wife. You will pardon me when you know all."
Down the upper hall came the blithe, morning whistle of young Charles Carroll. He was approaching the stairs.
"Speak to me, Deborah," muttered Fairfield, with desperate earnestness.
Deborah gave him a long, strange look from her gray eyes. It was an inscrutable look, one that baffled him who caught it; but he did not know that the feeling which it called forth had baffled also the girl.
"Good-morning to you, Deborah!" cried young Charles. "Good-morning, Fairfield! Oh, but I'm hungry! Are we going to breakfast now?"