“Because I like him and admire him, and I thought you—dangerous.”
“That is why he has said the things he has.”
“He has said something?”
“He has told me that I am not worthy of regard or consideration or respect.”
“Impossible!”
“Perhaps not directly—but he has implied that and more—by word and action. And—and—I love him.”
Mrs. Brough sat down quickly in the chair which she had drawn up, and took Miriam’s hands.
“I know you so well now,” she said, “that at dinner I saw something was wrong. I did not realize that it was as bad as that.”
“I think I loved him even last winter, when I only saw him—heard who he was—and did not know him. I admired and respected and reverenced him. But he seemed different to me. And to-day when I met him I wanted to tell him a little—as much as I could—of what I thought. I wanted him to know something of the feeling that I had. I wanted to please him. I wanted him to be nice to me—because I pleased him. What I said to him was true—true.”
She sprang to her feet, and spoke in deep, tragic tones.