‘My dearest—forgive me; I confess I doubted you—but I was beside myself,’ came to her ears from over her shoulder. But Ethelberta walked on as before.
Lord Mountclere sighed like a poet over a ledger. ‘An old man—who is not very old—naturally torments himself with fears of losing—no, no—it was an innocent jest of mine—you will forgive a joke—hee-hee?’ he said again, on getting no reply.
‘You had no right to mistrust me!’
‘I do not—you did not blench. You should have told me before that it was your sister and not yourself who was entangled with him.’
‘You brought me to Melchester on purpose to confront him!’
‘Yes, I did.’
‘Are you not ashamed?’
‘I am satisfied. It is better to know the truth by any means than to die of suspense; better for us both—surely you see that?’
They had
