Lady Dashwood's eyes were on him as she spoke. He seemed not to hear. He went up to his desk and turned over some papers, nervously, and he was a man who rarely showed any nervousness in his movements.
Then he suddenly said: "Gwendolen has practically accepted my offer." And he did not turn round and look at his sister.
It had come! She knew it was coming, and yet it was as keenly painful as if she had been wholly unprepared.
"I can't delay our engagement," he said. "I must speak to her to-day—some time."
Then he moved so as to face his sister, and their eyes met. Misery was plainly visible in hers, in his the fixed determination to ignore that misery.
"May I ask you one question?" she began in a shaky voice.
He made no reply, but waited in silence for the question.
"When did it happen? I've no right to ask, dear, but tell me when did it happen?"
There was a strange look of conflict in his face that he was unable to control. "On Monday, just before dinner," he said, and he took some papers from the desk as if he were about to read them. Then he put them down again and took out his cigar case.
Lady Dashwood walked slowly to the door. When she reached it, she turned.