“Yes, mother.” Millicent started for the staircase, casting an appealing look at Dorothy as she passed her, and in mute response the latter turned to follow, but at the top of the stairs Wyndham laid a detaining hand on her shoulder.
“Wait,” he entreated, and as he met her wistful, frightened glance he repressed with difficulty the emotion that threatened to master him. “Dorothy, never forget I have your interests at heart to the exclusion of all else.”
“Hush!” She raised a trembling hand to his lips, and seizing it he pressed it against his cheeks.
“Dear, how cold you are!” he murmured fondly, caressing her hand.
“Hush!” she reiterated. “Hugh, you must not—this is not the time—”
“It is,” with obstinate fervor. “You cannot have forgotten—”
“Forgotten?” Dorothy started as if stung. “Would to heaven I could!”
“Then you understand?” She looked at him dumbly. “You are sure you understand?”
Through a mist of tears Dorothy studied him, and as she met his imploring gaze a wave of tenderness sent her other hand to meet his eager clasp; then horror of herself, of her thoughts, checked her wild longing to throw herself into his arms, and she drew back.
“It is because I understand,” she said, steadying her voice with an effort, “that I shall never cease to reproach myself—”