“I don't—I don't understand you,” panted Lydia, confusedly arresting her bolts in mid-course.
Staniford pursued his guilty advantage; it was his only chance. “I gave way to Mr. Hicks when you had an engagement with me. I thought—you would come back to keep your engagement.” He was still very meek.
“Excuse me,” she said with self-reproach that would have melted the heart of any one but a man who was in the wrong, and was trying to get out of it at all hazards. “I didn't know what you meant—I—”
“If I had meant what you thought,” interrupted Staniford nobly, for he could now afford to be generous, “I should have deserved much more than you said. But I hope you won't punish my awkwardness by refusing to walk with me.”
He knew that she regarded him earnestly before she said, “I must get my shawl and hat.”
“Let me go!” he entreated.
“You couldn't find them,” she answered, as she vanished past him. She returned, and promptly laid her hand in his proffered arm; it was as if she were eager to make him amends for her harshness.
Staniford took her hand out, and held it while he bowed low toward her. “I declare myself satisfied.”
“I don't understand,” said Lydia, in alarm and mortification.
“When a subject has been personally aggrieved by his sovereign, his honor is restored if they merely cross swords.”