“Of you, my Lord.”
He started.
Sandford went on——“I know no tie—no bond—no innocence, that is a protection when you feel resentment.”
“You are right,” he replied, significantly.
“Then how, my Lord, can you encourage me to speak on, when that which I perhaps would say, might offend you to hear?”
“To what, and whither are you changing our subject?” cried Lord Elmwood. “But, Sir, if you know my resentful and relentless temper, you surely know how to shun it.”
“Not, and speak plainly.”
“Then dissemble.”
“No, I’ll not do that—but I’ll be silent.”
“A new parade of submission. You are more tormenting to me than any one I have about me. Constantly on the verge of disobeying my commands, that you may recede, and gain my good will by your forbearance. But know, Mr. Sandford, that I will not suffer this much longer. If you chuse in every conversation we have together (though the most remote from such a subject) to think of my daughter, you must either banish your thoughts, or conceal them—nor by one sign, one item, remind me of her.”