“I am beginning to understand, for some reason of your own, you used my name, you informed Lady Linden that you—­and I were—­married?”

“Yes,” he said.

“And it was, of course, a vile lie, an insolent lie!” Her voice quivered.  “It has subjected me to humiliation and annoyance.  I do not think that a girl has ever been placed in such a false position as I have been through your—­cowardly lie.”

He had probably never known actual fear in his life, nor a sense of shame such as he knew now.  He had nothing to say, he wanted to explain, yet could not, for Marjorie’s sake.  If Lady Linden knew how she had been deceived, she would naturally be furiously angry, and the brunt of her anger would fall on Marjorie, and this must not be.

So, silent, unable to speak a word in self-defence, he stood listening, shame-faced, while the girl spoke.  Every word she uttered was cutting and cruel, yet she shewed no temper.  He could have borne with that.

“You probably knew of me, and knew that I was alone in the world with no one to champion me.  You knew that I was poor, Mr. Alston, and so a fit butt for your cowardly jest.  My poverty has brought me into contact with strange people, cads; but the worst, the cruellest, the lowest of all is yourself!  I had hoped to have found rest and refuge here for a little time, but you have driven me out.  Oh, I did not believe that anything so despicable, so unmanly as you could exist.  I do not know why you have done this, perhaps it is your idea of humour.”

“Believe me—­” he stammered, yet could say no more; and then a sense of anger, of outraged honesty, came to him.  Of course he had been foolish, yet he had been misled.  To hear this girl speak, one would think that he had deliberately set to work to annoy and insult her, she of whose existence he had not even known.

“My poverty,” she said, and flung her head back as she spoke, “has made me the butt, the object for the insolence and insult of men like yourself, men who would not dare insult a girl who had friends to protect her.”

“You are ungenerous!” he said hotly.

She seemed to start a little.  She looked at him, and her beautiful eyes narrowed.  Then, without another word, she turned towards the door.

The scene was over, yet he felt no relief.

“Miss Meredyth!”

She did not hear, or affected not to.  She turned the handle of the door, but hesitated for a moment.  She looked back at him, contempt in her gaze.

“You are ungenerous,” he said again.  He had not meant to say it; he had to say something, and it seemed to him that her anger against him was almost unreasonable.

She made no answer; the door closed on her, and he was left to try and collect his thoughts.

And he had not even apologised, he reflected now.  She had not given him an opportunity to.

Pacing the room, Hugh decided what he would do.  He would give her time to cool down, for her wrath to evaporate, then he would seek her out, and tell her as much as he could—­tell her that the secret was not entirely his own.  He would appeal to the generosity that he had told her she did not possess.