"Yes, I always liked her," he answered, simply.
"I'm afraid I'm not very amiable," I retorted, "for I never liked her: no better even than that fraudulent Mary Leighton, clever and sensible as she always was. There is such a thing as being too clever, and too sensible, and making yourself an offence to all less admirable people."
Richard was entirely silent, and, I was sure, was disapproving of me very much.
"Do you know what I heard yesterday?" I said, In a daring way. "And I hope you're going to tell me if it's true, to-night?"
"What was it that you heard yesterday?" he asked, without much change of tone. He had laid down the photograph, and had gone back, and was leaning by the mantelpiece again.
"Why, I heard that you were going to marry Charlotte Benson. Is it true?"
I had pushed away the pile of photographs from me, and had looked up at him when I began, but my voice and courage rather failed before the end, and my eyes fell. There was a silence--a silence that seemed to stifle me.
"Why do you ask me that question?" he said, at last, in a low voice. "Do you believe I am, yourself?"
"No," I cried, springing up, and going over to his side. "No, I don't believe it. Tell me it isn't true, and promise me you won't ever, ever marry Charlotte Benson."
The relief was so unspeakable that I didn't care what I said, and the joy I felt showed itself in my face and voice. I put out my hand to him when I said "promise me," but he did not take it, and turned his head away from me.