And there was a passion of acute irony in the exclamation.
“What’s the matter?” said Miss Van Tuyn, looking surprised, almost startled.
But Lady Sellingworth did not tell her.
“If you will go like this, Beryl—go!” she said. “I cannot force you to do, or not to do, anything. But”—she laid a hand on the girl’s arm and pressed it till her hand almost hurt Beryl—“but I tell you that you are in danger, in great danger. I dread to think of what may be in store for you.”
Something in the grasp of her hand, in her manner, in her eyes, impressed Miss Van Tuyn in spite of herself. Again fear, a fear mysterious and cold, crept in her. Garstin had warned her in his way. Now Adela was warning her. And she remembered that other warning whispered by something within herself. She stood still looking into Lady Sellingworth’s eyes. Then she looked down. She seemed to be considering something. At last she looked up again and said:
“You said to me to-night that you did not know Mr. Arabian—now.”
“I don’t know him.”
“But have you known him? Did you know him long ago?”
“I have never known him.”
“Then I don’t understand. And—and I will not act in ignorance. It isn’t fair to expect me to do that.”