“I called you?” repeated Ralph.
“Yes—you called me. Your voice was quite close to me, at my ear; I thought you were in the room. Tell me what it is.”
She loosened her hold of her mantle as she stood there by the table; and it dropped open, showing a sparkle of jewels at her throat. She threw back her hood, and it dropped on to her shoulders, leaving visible the coiled masses of her black hair set with knots of ribbon.
“I did not call,” said Ralph dully. “I do not know what you mean, Mistress Atherton.”
She made a little impatient gesture.
“Ah! yes,” she said, “it is something. Tell me quickly. I suppose it has to do with my Lord. What is it?”
“It is nothing,” said Ralph again.
They stood looking at one another in silence. Beatrice’s eyes ran a moment up and down his rich dress, the papers in his hands, then wandered to the heaped floor, the table, and returned to the papers in his hands.
“You must tell me,” she said. “What is that you are holding?”
An angry terror seized Ralph.