“Julian is famous for his powers of persuasion,” said Horace, smiling. “If he spoke to you, Grace, he would prevail on you to fix the day. Suppose I ask Julian to plead for me?”
He made the proposal in jest. Mercy’s unquiet mind accepted it as addressed to her in earnest. “He will do it,” she thought, with a sense of indescribable terror, “if I don’t stop him!” There is but one chance for her. The only certain way to prevent Horace from appealing to his friend was to grant what Horace wished for before his friend entered the house. She laid her hand on his shoulder; she hid the terrible anxieties that were devouring her under an assumption of coquetry painful and pitiable to see.
“Don’t talk nonsense!” she said, gayly. “What were we saying just now—before we began to speak of Mr. Julian Gray?”
“We were wondering what had become of Lady Janet,” Horace replied.
She tapped him impatiently on the shoulder. “No! no! It was something you said before that.”
Her eyes completed what her words had left unsaid. Horace’s arm stole round her waist.
“I was saying that I loved you,” he answered, in a whisper.
“Only that?”
“Are you tired of hearing it?”
She smiled charmingly. “Are you so very much in earnest about—about—” She stopped, and looked away from him.