"Oh, 'treachery!'—" she murmured, protesting. His look both intimidated and drew her. Winnington came nearer to her, and suddenly he laid his hand on both of hers. Looking up she was conscious of a look that was half raillery, half tenderness.
"My dear child!—I must call you that—though you are so clever—and so—so determined to have your own way. Look here! I'm going to plead my rights. I've done a good deal for you the last three months—perhaps you hardly know all that has been done. I've been your watch-dog—put it at that. Well, now give the watch-dog, give the Early-Victorian, his bone! Promise me that you will have no more dealings with Mr. Lathrop. Send him back his books—and say 'Not at Home!'"
She was really distressed.
"I can't, Mr. Winnington!—I'm so sorry!—but I can't."
"Why can't you?" He still held her.
A score of thoughts flew hither and thither in her brain. She had asked a great favour of Lathrop—she had actually put the jewels into his hands! How could she recall her action? And when he had done her such a service, if he succeeded in doing it—how was she to turn round on him, and cut him the very next moment?
Nor could she make up her mind to confess to Winnington what she had done. She was bent on her scheme. If she disclosed it now everything might be upset.
"I really can't!" she repeated, gravely, releasing her hands.
Winnington rose, and began to pace the drawing room. Delia watched him—quivering—an exquisite vision herself, in the half lights of the room.
When he paused at last to speak, she saw a new expression in his eyes.