Already unnerved, even before she had seen him—painfully conscious that she had committed a serious error, on the last occasion when they had met, in speaking at all—Carmina neither answered him nor looked at him. She bent her head confusedly, and advanced a little nearer to the house door.
He at once moved so as to place himself in her way.
“I must request you to call to mind what passed between us,” he resumed, “when we met by accident some little time since.”
He had speculated on frightening her. His insolence stirred her spirit into asserting itself. “Let me by, if you please,” she said; “the carriage is waiting for me.”
“The carriage can wait a little longer,” he answered coarsely. “On the occasion to which I have referred, you were so good as to make advances, to which I cannot consider myself as having any claim. Perhaps you will favour me by stating your motives?”
“I don’t understand you, sir.”
“Oh, yes—you do!”
She stepped back, and laid her hand on the bell which rang below stairs, in the pantry. “Must I ring?” she said.
It was plain that she would do it, if he moved a step nearer to her. He drew aside—with a look which made her tremble. On passing the hall table, she placed her letter in the post-basket. His eye followed it, as it left her hand: he became suddenly penitent and polite. “I am sorry if I have alarmed you,” he said, and opened the house-door for her—without showing himself to Marceline and the coachman outside.
The carriage having been driven away, he softly closed the door again, and returned to the hall-table. He looked into the post-basket.