“He alone has a right, Owen,” she said, addressing me for the first time by my Christian name.
“What right?”
But she would not answer. She merely stood with head downcast, and said—
“Ask him.”
This I did, but the thin-faced man refused to reply. All he would say was—
“I have forbidden this fatal folly, Mr. Biddulph. Please do not let us discuss it further.”
I confess I was both angry and bewildered. The mystery was hourly increasing. Sylvia had admitted that Shuttleworth had a right to interfere. Yet I could not discern by what right a mere friend could forbid a girl to entertain affection. I felt that the ever-increasing problem was even stranger and more remarkable than I had anticipated, and that when I fathomed it, it would be found to be utterly astounding!
Sylvia was unwavering in her attachment to myself. Her antagonism towards Shuttleworth’s pronouncement was keen and bitter, yet, with her woman’s superior judgment, she affected carelessness.
“You asked this lady to confess,” I said, addressing him. “Confess what?”
“The truth.”