Manisty looked at her with his most sparkling, most determined air.
'You have missed her—because I have misled her.' Then, as Lucy drew back, he hurried on,—'I cannot understand, Miss Foster, why it is that you have constantly refused all yesterday evening—all to-day—to give me the opportunity I desired! But I, too, have a will,—and it has been roused!
'I don't understand,' said Lucy, growing white.
'Let me explain, then,' said Manisty, coolly. 'Miss Foster, two nights ago you were attacked,—in danger—under my roof, in my care. As your host, you owe it to me, to let me account and apologise for such things—if I can. But you avoid me. You give me no chance of telling you what I had done to protect you—of expressing my infinite sorrow and regret. I can only imagine that you resent our negligence too deeply even to speak of it—that you cannot forgive us!'
'Forgive!' cried Lucy, fairly taken aback. 'What could I have to forgive,
Mr. Manisty?—what can you mean?'
'Explain to me then,' said he, unflinching, 'why you have never had a kind
word for me, or a kind look, since this happened. Please sit down, Miss
Foster'—he pointed to a marble bench close beside her—'I will stand here.
The others are far away. Ten minutes you owe me—ten minutes I claim.'
Lucy sat down, struggling to maintain her dignity and presence of mind.
'I am afraid I have given you very wrong ideas of me,' she said, throwing him a timid smile. 'I of course have nothing to forgive anybody—far, far the contrary. I know that you took all possible pains that no harm should happen to me. And through you—no harm did happen to me.'
She turned away her head, speaking with difficulty. To both that moment of frenzied struggle at the dining-room door was almost too horrible for remembrance. And through both minds there swept once more the thrill of her call to him—of his rush to her aid.
'You knew'—he said eagerly, coming closer.