He started. “A letter from you? I never received it.”
The momentary animation died out of her face again. She drew back from him and dropped into a chair. He advanced toward her, astonished and alarmed. She shrank in the chair—shrank, as if she was frightened of him.
“Clara, you have not even shaken hands with me! What does it mean?”
He paused; waiting and watching her. She made no reply. A flash of the quick temper in him leaped up in his eyes. He repeated his last words in louder and sterner tones:
“What does it mean?”
She replied this time. His tone had hurt her—his tone had roused her sinking courage.
“It means, Mr. Wardour, that you have been mistaken from the first.”
“How have I been mistaken?”
“You have been under a wrong impression, and you have given me no opportunity of setting you right.”
“In what way have I been wrong?”