"You look delicate," he answers, "but in my eyes," lowering his voice, "you are as beautiful as ever."
She half-smiles, half-sighs.
"It is very kind of you to say that," she utters, "but I cannot deceive myself. I am an old woman now; if ever I had any good looks they are gone."
"They are not!" cries Lord Harford staunchly. "What I say is gospel truth. I think your delicacy becomes you. I hate your great buxom, dairymaid women."
Virginia smiles at his earnestness.
"Ah, if you had been mine," he goes on, "I should never have wanted to look at another woman, young or old."
Still that strange meaning in his tone. A chill terror creeps to Virginia's heart—she can no longer restrain herself.
"What do you mean?" she says, fixing her eyes on him. "You are hinting at something—you want to convey something to my mind. If you are a man—if you pretend to be my friend, speak out honestly."
He rises, and takes one or two turns in the room, then stops abruptly in front of her.
"Will you believe me, I wonder?" he asks, "or will you think me a mean hound who only seeks his own interest?"