Herbert turned to Sydney; trying to recover herself, she stood near the table. “Give me the book,” he said; “the sooner this comes to an end the better for her, the better for us.” Sydney gave him the book. With a visible effort, he matched Catherine’s self-control; after all, she had remembered his gift! He offered the book to her.
She still kept her eyes fixed on Sydney—still spoke to Sydney.
“Tell him,” she said, “that I refuse to receive the book.”
Sydney attempted to obey. At the first words she uttered, Herbert checked her once more.
“I have begged you already not to submit to insult.” He turned to Catherine. “The book is yours, madam. Why do you refuse to take it?”
She looked at him for the first time. A proud sense of wrong flashed at him its keenly felt indignation in her first glance. “Your hands and her hands have touched it,” she answered. “I leave it to you and to her.”
Those words stung him. “Contempt,” he said, “is bitter indeed on your lips.”
“Do you presume to resent my contempt?”
“I forbid you to insult Miss Westerfield.” With that reply, he turned to Sydney. “You shall not suffer while I can prevent it,” he said tenderly, and approached to put his arm round her. She looked at Catherine, and drew back from his embrace, gently repelling him by a gesture.
Catherine felt and respected the true delicacy, the true penitence, expressed in that action. She advanced to Sydney. “Miss Westerfield,” she said, “I will take the book—from you.”