“I beg your pardon for that,” he said at once. “Honestly and sincerely I am ashamed of that. Only it is fair to say that I meant no possible disrespect to you. I couldn’t well meet you in your own house. The weather was beastly—I thought we could discuss our plans—and might as well do it under a glass cover as under umbrellas. We might have been there five minutes. Really, I can’t admit that the base is broad enough to hold all the superstructure.”
“It was nothing,” she admitted; “I was only offended for a moment—and of course if I had still been nursery governess I should have gone, without a question. I should have been flattered, I am sure. But—ah, surely you can be honest with yourself, surely you know what it is you want of me. Why, if I could bring myself—would it be worthy of you to—?” She broke off, impatient at the hopelessness of convincing him. “Mr. Duplessis,” she said, and he frowned at the style, “I have been wicked, I think—at least, I have been so foolish that I can hardly believe it was I. I am sure you won’t be so ungenerous as to pin me down to a mistake. I beg you to take what I say now—as I mean it.”
Looking up at him, she saw that she had made no way. The more she said, she could see, the greater the fire in the man. He stooped right over her, and she could hear the fever in his voice.
“My love, my adorable love—I shall never give you up—never—never——”
She cowered. “Ah, be merciful——”
He said, “My mercy shall be my love and service”—and took her hands.
She strained away—she turned her head—“No, no,” she murmured, “I implore you.” But he drew her in—“My beloved—my darling——”
The street knocker clamoured—a double call—and as he started she sprang back to the wall, and gained the door. She went down the passage and met her mother with a telegram in her hand. “For you, Mary. No bad news, I hope.”
Mary read. “Think it would be well if you could come to-day.—Constantia Germain.”
She had not heard from Hill-street for three days. Yes, certainly she must go.