“I’m quite sure she would not,” assented Horace, “she is much too kind-hearted.”
“And,” continued Embrance, clasping her hands firmly in her muff, “I wanted to say (we needn’t talk about it again), if you think that it would be better for her to go down to Doveton, I will try and persuade her to go; it would not be for long, perhaps.”
“No, I suppose not,” said Horace, absently; “but don’t you see, Miss Clemon, the question is not altogether about Joan’s peace of mind, but yours?”
They had reached the gate, and turned into a dreary piece of “outer circle.”
“Mine?” exclaimed Embrance, growing scarlet in the dim twilight; “there is no occasion to talk about me.”
“I beg your pardon, I have a great deal to say. Do you suppose I don’t see what you are doing for my cousin, how you are helping her and teaching her, and taking on your shoulders the responsibilities that her own family ought to bear?”
“I had not looked upon it from that point of view,” said Embrance, dryly.
“Now you are angry at what I have said; I can’t help it, I can’t hold my tongue any longer. Joan knows what I think, but perhaps she has not told you all I said; she is a dear little girl. Don’t imagine that I am throwing any blame on her, but she shouldn’t have come to London!”
“I have tried to do my best for her,” said Embrance, in a broken voice.
“Miss Clemon,” cried Horace, “you must think that I am behaving like a brute! Do you suppose I don’t know that? You have done her, and are doing her, all the good in the world.”