She smiled a little, very sadly.
“Nevertheless, I am the hangman’s daughter; and a Courcy of Faldon must not wed with me. Go! God be with you. I thank you for the trust you have shown in me, and I do not abuse it.”
“That is your last word?”
“Yes, it must be so.”
He grew very white, and his eyes darkened with anger; he was annoyed and indignant; an immense offence was his first and dominant feeling. He was misunderstood, doubted, rejected, when he had in the fullness of his heart brought and laid at her feet the greatest gift he could offer. He did not stoop to plead with an ingrate. He bowed low to her, and in perfect silence turned away. The sound of his steps on the fallen fir-needles made a faint crackling noise on the still air.
She stood looking seaward, but of sea and of sky seeing nothing.
Her dog whined wistfully in sympathy, knowing that her motionless serenity was sorrow.
CHAPTER XLII.
About two weeks from the time of the unwelcome visit to her of Prince Khris, the Duchess of Otterbourne, descending the terrace steps of her hotel, met, as he ascended them, young Woffram of Karstein.
“How dull you look!” she said to him. “What on earth is the matter? Are you going to enliven us with a sensational suicide?”