“Nonsense,” said Sir William slowly. “Henry March wants to come down for the night.”
Jane bent forward over her papers. No one was looking at her, no one was thinking of her, but she had felt her cheeks grow hot, and was glad of an excuse to hide them.
She did not know whether she was very much afraid or very glad. A feeling unfamiliar but overwhelming seemed to shake her to the depths. She was quite unconscious of what was passing behind her.
At Henry’s name, Raymond Heritage uttered a sharp, “Oh no!” She came quickly forward as she spoke and caught the letter from Sir William’s hand.
“He can’t come—I can’t have him here—put him off, Father; you can make some excuse!”
“Nonsense!” said Sir William again. “It’s a nuisance, of course—it’s an infernal nuisance—but he’ll have to come, confound him!”
Then, as she made a half-articulate protest, he went on with increasing loss of temper:
“Good heavens! I can’t very well tell the man I won’t have him in what is practically his own house.”
It was Ember, not her father, who saw how frightfully pale Raymond became. In a very low voice she said:
“No, I suppose not.”