"At my birth--yes. And now, Sir Everard"--the bright, clear eyes
flashed suddenly full upon him--"is the catechism almost at an end?"

He absolutely recoiled. If ever guilt was written on a human face, it
was readily written on his.

"Ah!" Miss Hunsden said, scornfully, "you thought I couldn't find you
out--you thought I couldn't see your drift. Have a better opinion of
my powers of penetration next time, Sir Everard. My poor father,
impoverished in purse, broken in health, sensitive in spirit, chooses
to hide his wounds--chooses not to wear his heart on his sleeve for the
Devonshire daws to peck at--chooses never to speak of his lost
wife--and, lo! all the gossips of the country are agape for the news.
She was an actress, was she not, Sir Everard? And when I ride across
the country, at the heels of the hounds, it is only the spangles, and
glitter, and theater glare breaking out again. I could despise it in
others, but I did think better things of the son of my father's oldest
friend! Good-morning, Sir Everard."

She turned proudly away.

"Stay, Harriet--Miss Hunsden! Stop--for pity's sake, stop and hear me!
I have been presuming--impertinent. I have deserved your rebuke."

"You have," she said, haughtily.

"But I asked those questions because the nameless insinuations I heard
drove me mad--because I love you, I worship you, with all my heart and
soul."