Then a cry broke from her white lips, and she struggled to stand up.
“No, no, no! you are mocking me. Oh! Anthony, what have I done, that you should treat me like this?”
“Mocking!” he said, “before God I am not. My horse is waiting to take me to the priest.”
“But—but—” she began again. “Oh! then what have you done to James Maxwell?”
“James Maxwell! Why? What do you mean? You got my note!”
“No—no. There was no answer, he said.”
Anthony stared.
“Why, I wrote—and then Lady Maxwell! Does she not know, and James himself?”
Isabel shook her head and looked at him wildly.
“Well, well, that must wait; one thing at a time,” he said. “I cannot wait now. I must go to Cuckfield. Ah! Isabel, say you understand.”