Geoffrey never moved.
“I’ve seen enough of her already,” he said, brutally.
“You may well be ashamed to look at her,” said Sir Patrick, quietly. “But you might have acknowledged it in fitter words. Carry your memory back to the fourteenth of August. Do you deny that you promised to many Miss Silvester privately at the Craig Fernie inn?”
“I object to that question,” said Mr. Moy. “My client is under no sort of obligation to answer it.”
Geoffrey’s rising temper—ready to resent any thing—resented his adviser’s interference. “I shall answer if I like,” he retorted, insolently. He looked up for a moment at Sir Patrick, without moving his chin from the hook of his stick. Then he looked down again. “I do deny it,” he said.
“You deny that you have promised to marry Miss Silvester?”
“Yes.”
“I asked you just now to look at her—”
“And I told you I had seen enough of her already.”
“Look at me. In my presence, and in the presence of the other persons here, do you deny that you owe this lady, by your own solemn engagement, the reparation of marriage?”