A tall man wearing yachting clothes was coming through the shadow of the trees; he uncovered his head as he approached, evidently knowing that she was there.
“I beg your pardon,” he said vaguely, with some embarrassment; then he came behind her and stood still—it was Hurstmanceaux.
She was so much surprised that she said nothing. He came round the trees and stood in front of the bench on which she was sitting. The light shone on his fair hair and the color rose slightly in his face.
“I beg your pardon,” he said again. “I am an intruder on your privacy, but I have come here on purpose to say to you——” He hesitated, then continued—“To say to you how much admiration and esteem I feel for your noble action.”
She was still too surprised to reply, and almost too troubled by various conflicting and obscure emotions to comprehend him. She could not believe her own ears, and the memory of that false report of which Framlingham had spoken seemed buzzing and stinging about her like a swarm of bees.
“I do not suppose you can care for my approval,” he added as she remained silent, “but such as it is worth you command it—and my most sincere respect.”
“Everyone thinks me mad,” she said, with a passing smile as she strove to recover her composure.
“Do swine see the stars?” he said, with impatient contempt. “Of course it looks madness to the world. May I ask one thing—does your mother’s income die with her?”
“Yes,” replied Katherine, more and more surprised, and vaguely offended at the unceremonious interrogation.
“Then if she died to-morrow you would be penniless?”