any honour, you will say no more.”
The late John Harmon, looking at the proud face with the downcast eyes, and at the quick breathing as it stirred the fall of bright brown hair over the beautiful neck, would probably have remained silent.
“I wish to speak to you, sir,” said Bella, “once for all, and I don’t know how to do it. I have sat here all this evening, wishing to speak to you, and determining to speak to you, and feeling that I must. I beg for a moment’s time.”
He remained silent, and she remained with her face averted, sometimes making a slight movement as if she would turn and speak. At length she did so.
“You know how I am situated here, sir, and you know how I am situated at home. I must speak to you for myself, since there is no one about me whom I could ask to do so. It is not generous in you, it is not honourable in you, to conduct yourself towards me as you do.”
“Is it ungenerous or dishonourable to be devoted to you; fascinated by you?”
“Preposterous!” said Bella.
The late John Harmon might have thought it rather a contemptuous and lofty word of repudiation.
“I now feel obliged to go on,” pursued the Secretary, “though it were only in self-explanation and self-defence. I hope, Miss Wilfer, that it is not unpardonable—even in me—to make an honest declaration of an honest devotion to you.”
“An honest declaration!” repeated Bella, with emphasis.
“Is it otherwise?”