“I hope not.  I think not.”

“And you yourself must be well aware of it,—­quite as well aware of it as I am.  You have thrown me over and absolutely destroyed me;—­ and why?” He shrugged his shoulders.  “Because you have been afraid of others; because your sister has told you that you were mistaken in your choice.  The women around you have been too many for you, and have not allowed you to dispose of your hand, and your name, and your property as you pleased.  I defy you to say that this was not your sister’s doing.”  He was too much astounded to contradict her rapidly, and then she passed on, not choosing to give him time for contradiction.  “Will you have the hardihood to say that you did not love me?” Then she paused thinking that he would not dare to contradict her then, feeling that in that she was on strong ground.  “Were you lying when you told me that you did?  What did you mean when I was in your arms up in the house there?  What did you intend me to think that you meant?” Then she stopped, standing well in front of him, and looking fixedly into his face.

This was the very thing that he had feared.  Lord Augustus had been a trouble.  The Duke’s letter had been a trouble.  Lady Augustus had been a trouble; and Sir George’s sermons had been troublesome.  But what were they all when compared to this?  How is it possible that a man should tell a girl that he has not loved her, when he has embraced her again and again?  He may know it, and she may know it;—­and each may know that the other knows it;—­but to say that he does not and did not then love her is beyond the scope of his audacity,—­unless he be a heartless Nero.  “No one can grieve about this so much as I do,” he said weakly.

“Cannot I grieve more, do you think,—­I who told all my relatives that I was to become your wife, and was justified in so telling them?  Was I not justified?”

“I think not.”

“You think not!  What did you mean then?  What were you thinking of when we were coming back in the carriage from Stamford,—­when with your arms round me you swore that you loved me better than all the world?  Is that true?  Did you so swear?” What a question for a man to have to answer!  It was becoming clear to him that there was nothing for him but to endure and be silent.  Even to this interview the gods would at last give an end.  The hour would pass, though, alas, so slowly, and she could not expect that he should stand there to be rated much after the accustomed time for feeding.  “You acknowledge that, and do you dare to say that I had no right to tell my friends?”

There was a moment in which he thought it was almost a pity that he had not married her.  She was very beautiful in her present form,—­ more beautiful he thought than ever.  She was the niece of a Duke, and certainly a very clever woman.  He had not wanted money and why shouldn’t he have married her?  As for hunting him,—­that was a matter of course.  He was as much born and bred to be hunted as a fox.  He could not do it now as he had put too much power into the hands of the Penwethers, but he almost wished that he had.  “I never intended it,” he said.