He said a few unimportant words, with a visible effort to preserve his customary ease of manner.  But his voice was not to be steadied, and the restless uneasiness in his eyes was not to be concealed.  He must have felt this himself, for he stopped in the middle of a sentence, and gave up even the attempt to hide his embarrassment any longer.

There was just one moment of dead silence before Laura addressed him.

“I wish to speak to you, Sir Percival,” she said, “on a subject that is very important to us both.  My sister is here, because her presence helps me and gives me confidence.  She has not suggested one word of what I am going to say—­I speak from my own thoughts, not from hers.  I am sure you will be kind enough to understand that before I go any farther?”

Sir Percival bowed.  She had proceeded thus far, with perfect outward tranquillity and perfect propriety of manner.  She looked at him, and he looked at her.  They seemed, at the outset, at least, resolved to understand one another plainly.

“I have heard from Marian,” she went on, “that I have only to claim my release from our engagement to obtain that release from you.  It was forbearing and generous on your part, Sir Percival, to send me such a message.  It is only doing you justice to say that I am grateful for the offer, and I hope and believe that it is only doing myself justice to tell you that I decline to accept it.”

His attentive face relaxed a little.  But I saw one of his feet, softly, quietly, incessantly beating on the carpet under the table, and I felt that he was secretly as anxious as ever.

“I have not forgotten,” she said, “that you asked my father’s permission before you honoured me with a proposal of marriage.  Perhaps you have not forgotten either what I said when I consented to our engagement?  I ventured to tell you that my father’s influence and advice had mainly decided me to give you my promise.  I was guided by my father, because I had always found him the truest of all advisers, the best and fondest of all protectors and friends.  I have lost him now—­I have only his memory to love, but my faith in that dear dead friend has never been shaken.  I believe at this moment, as truly as I ever believed, that he knew what was best, and that his hopes and wishes ought to be my hopes and wishes too.”

Her voice trembled for the first time.  Her restless fingers stole their way into my lap, and held fast by one of my hands.  There was another moment of silence, and then Sir Percival spoke.

“May I ask,” he said, “if I have ever proved myself unworthy of the trust which it has been hitherto my greatest honour and greatest happiness to possess?”