"I don't understand," said she, advancing a step nearer, her brows knit, "Don't put me off. I got a note saying—"
"I know; I wrote it," boasted Sansome fatuously.
The blood mounted her face, her fists clenched, she advanced several steps fearlessly.
"I don't, quite understand," she repeated, in hard, crisp tones. "You wrote it?' Isn't it true? What did you do such a thing for?"
"To get you here, my dear, of course," rejoined Sansome gallantly. "I knew your puritanical scruples—I love them every one—but—"
"Do you mean to say you dared decoy me here!" challenged Nan, all aflame. Her whole emotion was one of rage. It did not occur to her to be afraid of Ben Sansome, the conventional, the dilettante exquisite, without the gumption to say boo to a goose!
This Sansome answered her, the habit of society strong within him. He became deprecatory, pleading, almost apologetic. His manners were on top and his rather weak nature quailed before the blaze of her anger.
"I know it was inexcusable," he babbled, "but what could I do? I am mad about you! Do forgive me! Just sit down for a few moments. I don't blame you for being angry—any one is angry at being deceived—but do forgive me. If you'll only consider why I did it, you won't be angry. That's right," he ended soothingly, seeing that she neither spoke nor moved, "Just sit right down here and be comfortable. It must be cold driving. Let me give you a glass of sherry." He fussed about, shoving forward an armchair, arranging pillows, unstopping the decanter.
"You fool!" she ejaculated in a low voice. She looked him all up and down, and turned to go.
The door was locked! For the first time she noticed that Mrs. Morrell had not followed her in. Her heart fluttered in sudden panic, which she subdued. She moved toward the other door.