She turned to him more fully—the tears came more quickly, but she did not mind his seeing them.
“Didn’t you know?” she said; “Papa is dead—more than a year ago now. Just before I came of age. I am quite alone. That silly—I shouldn’t say that, he is kind and good—Conrad is Lord Southwold now. But I don’t want to marry him, though he is almost the only man who, I know, cares for me for myself. How strange you did not know about my being all alone! Didn’t you notice this?” and she touched her black skirt.
“I have never seen you except in black,” said Despard. “No—I had no idea. I am so grieved.”
“If—if you stay in England,” she began again half timidly, “and you say you have forgiven me,”—he made a little gesture of deprecation of the word—“can’t we be friends, Mr Norreys?”
Despard rose to his feet. The whist party had dispersed. The little room was empty.
“No,” he said, “I am afraid that could never be, Lady Margaret. The one reason why I wish to leave England again is that I know now, I cannot—I must not risk seeing you.”
Maisie looked up, the tears were still glimmering about her eyes and cheeks; was it their soft glistening that made her face look so bright and almost radiant?
“Oh, do say it again—don’t think me not nice, oh, don’t!” she entreated. “But why—oh, why, if you care for me, though I can scarcely believe it, why let my horrible money come between us? I shall never care for anybody else—there now, I have said it!” And she tried to hide her face, but he would not let her.
“Do you really mean it, dear?” he said. “If you do, I—I will swallow my pride, too; shall I?”
She looked up, half laughing now.