He complies. There is silence—an expectant silence on my part. It is not of long duration. Before ten seconds have elapsed the note has fallen from his hand; and, with an exclamation of the profoundest astonishment, he is looking with an expression of the most keenly questioning wonder at me.
"To Musgrave!"
I nod. I have judiciously placed myself with my back to the light, so that, if that exasperating flood of crimson bathe my face—and bathe it it surely will—is not it coming now?—do not I feel it creeping hotly up?—it may be as little perceptible as possible.
"It must be a great, great surprise to you!" he says, interrogatively, and still with that sound of extreme and baffled wonder in his tone.
"Immense!" reply I.
I speak steadily if low; and I look determinedly back in his face. Whatever color my cheeks are—I believe they are of the devil's own painting—I feel that my eyes are honest. He has picked up the note, and is reading it again.
"She seems to have no doubt"—(with rising wonder in face and voice)—"as to its greatly pleasing you!"
"So it would have done at one time," I answer, still speaking (though no one could guess with what difficulty), with resolute equanimity.
"And does not it now?" (very quickly, and sending the searching scrutiny of his eyes through me).
"I do not know," I answer hazily, putting up my hand to my forehead. "I cannot make up my mind, it all seems so sudden."