"No, no! Don't. Don't touch me!" she cried, rising in turn, for resistance. She kept her mind fixed upon the expected rewards of her project, and so fortified herself against yielding.
"By heaven, I'll know what this means!" he cried. He looked wildly about the room, as if the explanation might somewhere there be found. Her own glance went with his, as if there might indeed be some evidence, which she must either make shift to conceal, or invent an innocent reason for its presence. Her eye rested an instant upon a book that lay on the table. Philip noted this, picked up the book, turned the cover, and read the name on the first leaf.
"'Charles Falconer.' Who is he?"
"'HE IS A—AN ACQUAINTANCE.'"
"No matter," she said quickly, and made to snatch the book away. "He is a—an acquaintance. He is quartered in the house, in fact—a British officer."
"An acquaintance? But why do you turn red? Why look so confused? Why try to take the book away from me? Oh, my God, it is true! it is true!" He dropped the volume, sank back upon a chair, and regarded her with indescribable grief.
"Why," she blundered, "a gentleman may lend a lady a novel—"
"Oh, the lending is nothing! 'Twas your look and action when I read his name. 'Tis your look now, your look of guilt. Oh, to see that flush of discovered shame on your face! You care for this man, I can see that!"