As Mr. Michael Harshaw did not arrive, we gave Mr. Cecil his opportunity,
as promised, of speech with his victim and judge. He talked to her in the
little sitting-room after dinner--as long as she would listen to him,
apparently. We heard her come flying out with a sort of passionate
suddenness, as if she had literally run away from his words. But he had
followed her, and for an instant I saw them together in the hall. His
poor young face was literally burning; perhaps it was only sunburn, but I
fancied she had been giving him a metaphorical drubbing--"ragging," as Tom
would call it--worse than Lady Anne gave Richard.
She was still in a fine Shakespearean temper when I carried her off
up-stairs. Reserves were impossible between us; her right to any privacy
in her own affairs had been given away from the start; that was one of the
pleasing features of the situation.
"_Marry_ him! marry _him_!" she cried. "That impertinent, meddlesome boy!
That false, dishonorable"--
"Go slow, dear," I said. "I don't think he's quite so bad as that."
"And what do I want with _him_! And what do you think he tells me, Mrs.
Daly? And whether there's any truth in him, how do I know? He declares
it was not Michael Harshaw who sent for me at all! The message, all the
messages, were from him.
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