"It is a way in which no man should please a lady," replied Sir Francis hotly. "Do not put me to the pain of a refusal, madam. My challenge goes to Lord Lyndwood."
"Ah, that is what it comes to! It is not for me you care, but for your pride."
"You will not be involved," he said quickly. "Can we not find a pretext for a quarrel?"
Miss Boyle rose, and the silver borders of her scarf rippled from her bosom to her feet.
"I am going to put myself at your mercy," she said in a quiet voice. "You must not take this quarrel upon you. You must understand."
He stood silent, staring at her oval face faintly seen between the folds of gauze.
"It is true, Francis—that statement in the paper. My lord wrote to me, and I to him, as it said. It was, I think, the Countess who found my letter and composed that paragraph." Her voice suddenly failed into a little sob.
"Is this a wile to put me off?" demanded Sir Francis passionately.
"On my honour, it is true," she answered. "It was always so between us, before his marriage, since we first met, and because of that I could not give you or any my hand."
"This to my face!" exclaimed her cousin softly.