"Yes."

"What occasion have _I_ for a letter from Mr. Delamayn?"

She was determined to acknowledge nothing--she kept him obstinately at
arm's-length. Arnold did, as a matter of instinct, what a man of larger
experience would have done, as a matter of calculation--he closed with
her boldly, then and there.

"Miss Silvester! it's no use beating about the bush. If you won't take
the letter, you force me to speak out. I am here on a very unpleasant
errand. I begin to wish, from the bottom of my heart, I had never
undertaken it."

A quick spasm of pain passed across her face. She was beginning, dimly
beginning, to understand him. He hesitated. His generous nature shrank
from hurting her.

"Go on," she said, with an effort.

"Try not to be angry with me, Miss Silvester. Geoffrey and I are old
friends. Geoffrey knows he can trust me--"

"Trust you?" she interposed. "Stop!"

Arnold waited. She went on, speaking to herself, not to him.

"When I was in the other room I asked if Geoffrey was there. And this
man answered for him." She sprang forward with a cry of horror.