"Say nothing more—prevarication is guilt! God forgive you, Beatrice Boville! If you loved me, and knelt at my feet, I would not make you my wife after the art and the lies with which you have repaid my trust. Thank God, you do not already bear my name and my honor in your hands!"
With those words he left her. Beatrice stood still in the same place, her lips set in one scornful line, her eyes glittering, her brow crimson, her whole attitude defiant, wronged, and unyielding. Earlscourt passed me, his face white as death, and was out of sight in a second. I waited a moment, then I followed my impulse, and went up to her.
"Beatrice, for Heaven's sake, what is all this?"
She turned her large eyes on me haughtily.
"Do you believe what your cousin does?"
I answered her as briefly:—
"No, I do not. There is some mistake here."
She seized my arm, impetuously:—
"Promise me, on your honor, never to tell what I tell to you while I live. Promise me, on your faith as a gentleman."
"On my honor, I promise. Well?"