Cecil was silent. The groom waited like a statue his ten yards behind them. She played with her reins nervously, the color coming and going painfully in her face.
"Lady Marabout told me of—of some conversation you had with her yesterday?"
Low as the words were, Cheveley heard them, and his hand, as it lay on the rails, shook like a girl's.
Cecil was silent again; she looked at him, her eyes full of unshed tears, as the color burned in her face, and she drooped her head almost to a level with her hands as they played with the reins.
"She told me—you——"
She stopped again. Cecil was new to making proposals, though not to rejecting them. Cheveley set his teeth to keep in the words that rushed to his lips, and Cecil saw the struggle as she bent her head lower and lower to the saddle, and twisted the reins into a Gordian knot.
"Do you—must we—why should——"
Fragmentary monosyllables enough, but sufficient to fell his strength.
"For God's sake do not tempt me!" he muttered. "You little know——"