He murmured something, as much no as yes, and with a manner as frigid as his breeding permitted. And standing—she had reseated herself—he continued to look at her, his lips drawn down.
“I grieve,” she continued, “to find the truth more sad than the report.”
“I do not know that you can help us,” he said.
“No?”
“No.”
“Because,” she rejoined, looking at him softly, “you will not let me help you. Sir Robert——”
“Lady Lansdowne!” He broke in abruptly, using her name with emphasis, using it with intention. “Once before you came to me. Doubtless you remember. Now, let me say at once, that if your errand to-day be the same, and I think it likely that it is the same——”
“It is not the same,” she replied with emotion which she did not try to hide. “It is not the same! For then there was time. And now there is no time. Let a day, it may be an hour, pass, and at the cost of all you possess you will not be able to buy that which you can still have for nothing!”
“And what is that?” he asked, frowning.
“An easy heart.” He had not looked for that answer, and he started. “Sir Robert,” she continued, rising from her seat, and speaking with even deeper feeling, “forgive her! Forgive her, I implore you. The wrong is past, is done, is over! Your daughter is restored——”