“Then of whom?”
“Of Anthony,” she answered, and corrected herself hurriedly—“of Captain Clyne, I mean. He will think of this road.”
“But he will not have had the news before noon,” Stewart answered. “It is eighteen miles from your brother’s to the Old Hall. And besides, I thought that he did not love you.”
“He does not,” she rejoined, “but he loves himself. He loves his pride. And this will hit both—hard! I am not quite sure,” she continued very slowly and thoughtfully, “that I am not a little sorry for him. He made so certain, you see. He thought all arranged. A week to-day was the day fixed, and—yes,” impetuously, “I am sorry for him, though I hated him yesterday.”
Stewart was silent a moment.
“I hate him to-day,” he said.
“Why?”
His eyes sparkled.
“I hate all his kind,” he said. “They are hard as stones, stiff as oaks, cruel as—as their own laws! A man is no man to them, unless he is of”—he paused almost imperceptibly—“our class! A law is no law to them unless they administer it! They see men die of starvation at their gates, but all is right, all is just, all is for the best, as long as they govern!”
“I don’t think you know him,” she said, somewhat stiffly.