"I do not think her very ill," replied Miss Vernon, "a little care and quiet is all she requires; but she desires me to say, she fears she will not be able to see you for some days; next week, if you should be in this neighbourhood, probably you will find her reinstated in our usual morning room."
"Of course I shall make enquiries every day for the health of my charming friend."
And as Kate could not avoid thinking there was something of a sneer in the smile and tone with which these words were spoken, they revived all her antipathy to the dark browed peer. Anxious to dismiss him, yet not wishing to show it, she stood a moment, undecided, when Lord Effingham, with a sudden change of voice and expression, from the measured tone and listless look, with which he usually spoke, to one of animation and earnestness, exclaimed—
"No, Miss Vernon, I cannot go yet, though you indicate your desire that I should, by standing. I cannot let the opportunity, I have so long sought, pass, without ascertaining whether your memory is as imperfect as mine is vivid."
"If you mean," returned Miss Vernon, raising her eyes to his with the calmness now so habitual to her, "if you mean that you met me before, and that I forget it, you are mistaken; I remember that very unpleasant circumstance perfectly."
He was evidently annoyed by her candour and tranquillity.
"I regret to find you still resent my conduct, you at least might excuse it."
Kate smiled.
"I do not resent it now; since that," she continued, "I have gone through much affliction, I have experienced real grief and sorrow, such as reduce all petty annoyances to their proper level; but why revert to what is past."
"To ask you to—not exactly to forgive, but to acknowledge that my bold attempt to grasp the inexpressible pleasure of your acquaintance was not so heinous."