"Harry Brammerton!—" I cried, springing up in a tremble of excitement. "My God! Oh, my God! I thought,—I,—I understood,—I—I—oh, God!"
I clutched at the table for support as the awful truth began to dawn on me.
Mary rose in alarm.
"Why! What is it? What have I said? George,—didn't you know? Didn't I tell you before? You have heard of him?—you are acquainted with him,—Viscount Harry Brammerton—"
"Oh! Mary, Mary," I cried huskily, "please,—please do not go on. It is more than I can bear now.
"I didn't know. I,—I am that man's brother. I am George Brammerton."
She stood ever so quietly.
"You!—You!" she whispered. And that was all.
Thus we stood,—stricken,—speechless,—under the cloud of the unexpected, the almost impossible that had come upon us.
Yet Mary, or rather Rosemary, was the first to regain her composure. Kindly, sweetly, she came over to me and placed her hands on my shoulders. Her brown eyes were wells of sympathy and tenderness.