Crauford’s face, not usually complicated in expression, was a curious study; solemnity, regret, a sense of injury, a sense of importance, struggled on it, and he cleared his throat faintly now and then, as some people will when they are ill at ease.
‘I am sorry to tell you, ma’am, that your trouble has been useless. I have had a great disappointment—a very great one: Miss Raeburn has refused my offer.’
He looked round at his sisters as though appealing to them to expostulate with Providence.
‘What?’ cried his mother.
‘She has refused,’ repeated Crauford.
‘Refused? Oh, my dear boy, it is impossible! I refuse—I refuse to believe it! Nonsense, my dear Crauford! It is unheard of!’
Mary, who had never taken her eyes off her brother’s face, laid down her needle and came forward.
‘Sit down!’ thundered her mother. ‘Sit down, and go on with your work! Or you can leave the room, you and Agneta. There is nothing so detestable as curiosity. Leave the room this moment!’
Dreadfully disappointed, they obeyed. Though it was safer in the hall, the other side of the door was far more entertaining.
Crauford moved uneasily about; he certainly was not to blame for what had happened, but the two lightning-conductors had gone, and the clouds looked black around him. Also he had no tact.