“I can but hope,” she said at length, “that even now you are saying these horrible things out of mere opposition. I cannot, I simply cannot believe, that you would bring disgrace upon us all.”
“If you chose to regard it as a disgrace that I should make so bold as to lay claim to myself, that, it seems to me, would be your own fault.” Henriette sprang forward white and trembling, and clutched Hadria’s arm excitedly.
“Ah! you could not! you could not! Think of your mother and father, if you will not think of your husband and children. You terrify me!”
Hadria was moved with pity at Henriette’s white quivering face.
“Don’t trouble,” she said, more gently. “There is no thunderbolt about to fall in our discreet circle.” (A hideous crash from the overturning of one of Martha’s Eiffel Towers seemed to belie the words.)
Miss Temperley’s clutch relaxed, and she gave a gasp of relief.
“Tell me, Hadria, that you did not mean what you said.”
“I can’t do that, for I meant it, every syllable.”
“Promise me then at least, that before you do anything to bring misery and disgrace on us all, you will tell us of your intention, and give us a chance of putting our side of the matter before you.”
“Of protecting your vested interests,” said Hadria; “your right of way through my flesh and spirit.”