"Please, Miss Morriston!" Gifford pleaded.
"To minimize any annoyance we are likely to suffer through his—his uncomfortable zeal," she resumed hesitatingly. "If not that, you may, if he is friendly with you, have an opportunity of getting to hear something of his plans and ideas, and warning me if he is likely to worry us at Wynford. We don't want the tragedy kept alive indefinitely; it would be intolerable. I am sure you understand how I feel. That is all."
"You may rely on me to the utmost," Gifford assured her fervently, in answer to the question in her eyes.
"Thank you," she said, as she rose. "I felt sure I might ask you this favour and trust you."
She made a slight movement of putting out her hand. The gesture was coldly made; it might, indeed, have been checked, and gone for nothing. But Gifford, keenly on the alert for a sign of regard, was quick to take the hand and press it impulsively.
"You may trust me, Miss Morriston," he murmured.
"Thank you," she responded simply, but, he was glad to notice, with a touch of relief.
She lightly took his arm and they went back to the ball-room.