Her own glance went with his, as if there might indeed be some
evidence, which she must either make shift to conceal, or invent an
innocent reason for its presence. Her eye rested an instant upon a
book that lay on the table. Philip noted this, picked up the book,
turned the cover, and read the name on the first leaf.
"'Charles Falconer.' Who is he?"
[Illustration: "'HE IS A--AN ACQUAINTANCE.'"]
"No matter," she said quickly, and made to snatch the book away. "He
is a--an acquaintance. He is quartered in the house, in fact--a
British officer."
"An acquaintance? But why do you turn red? Why look so confused? Why
try to take the book away from me? Oh, my God, it is true! it is
true!" He dropped the volume, sank back upon a chair, and regarded her
with indescribable grief.
"Why," she blundered, "a gentleman may lend a lady a novel--"
"Oh, the lending is nothing! 'Twas your look and action when I read
his name. 'Tis your look now, your look of guilt. Oh, to see that
flush of discovered shame on _your_ face! You care for this man, I can
see that!"
"Well, what if I do?"
"Then you confess it? Oh, can it be you that say this?--you that stand
there with eyes that drop before mine for shame--nay, eyes that you
raise with defiance! Brazen--oh, my God, my God, tell me 'tis all a
mistake! Tell me I wrong you, dear; that you are still mine, my
Margaret, my Madge--little Madge, that found me a home that day I came
to New York; my pretty Madge, that cried when I was going to leave on
Ned's account; that I loved the first moment I saw her, and--always--"
He broke down at this, and leaned forward upon the table, covering his
face with his hands.
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