“When at last I made out what I was accused of, and saw that they—I am not quite sure about Mrs. Aylmer, but the other two did not even attempt any disguise—believed it, I—I did not say anything at all. I just gave them—gave Catherine, I think it was, but I did not seem to see very well—gave Catherine back the letter and left the room.”
The foot of the figure on the hearthrug must have been on this particular night out of its owner’s control. A while ago it was the fire-irons that innocently suffered, now it was Jock; and, to his intense astonishment, nobody apologized.
Camilla said, “Well?”
“I knew that I should find Toby in the smoking-room, so I went there, and asked him to send to the stables and order something to take me—I am afraid I said,” with a humbly apologetic smile, “home!”
The wronger of Jock and of the fire-irons spoke at last, though his voice was not quite what he could have wished.
“And he let you go?”
“He had no choice, poor fellow!” replied the girl, with an unpretending dignity which made it seem to her hearer as if he saw her for the first time. “He was in a dreadful state. I never saw any one in such a dreadful state; but I was firm. I said, ‘If it is true, I am not fit to be here; and if it is not true, I ought never to speak to them again.’”
“And he acquiesced?”
“When I said that, oh, he was in a dreadful state!”—with a, for once, not manufactured shudder at the recollection. “He answered that, for his part, he had every intention of speaking to them again, and he did not think that they would forget what he meant to say in a hurry.”
The narrative, pregnant though it was, had not taken long, and now it was ended.