It was not an easy question to answer, when suddenly asked by an utter stranger.
“Well, I can scarcely tell you, Mrs. Sartwell,” stammered the young man, extremely ill at ease. “It is entirely a personal matter. I wished to have a few words with Miss Sartwell; that is all.”
The lady sat bolt upright, with a look of great severity on her face. There was mystery here which she resolved to unravel before she allowed the unfortunate young man to depart. He speedily came to the conclusion that he had in the lady before him an implacable enemy, more to be feared, perhaps, than Sartwell himself. Each question shot at him led him deeper and deeper into the tangle.
“You are her lover, I suppose?”
“No. That is—I really can’t explain, Mrs. Sart-well.”
“Very well; I shall ask my husband when he returns to-night. He knows nothing of this, of course?”
“Yes, he does.”
“He knows you are here?”
“He doesn’t know I am here to-day. He knows I love his daughter.”
“I thought you said you were not her lover. Young man, whatever else you do, speak the truth. All our earthly troubles come from shunning the truth, and from overweening pride. Avoid pride, and avoid falsehood. What did you mean when you told me just now that you were not Miss Sartwell’s lover? I beseech you to speak the truth.”