Agnes hesitated. A faint tinge of colour stole over her face.

There had been a long past time when Henry Westwick had owned
that he loved her. She had made her confession to him,
acknowledging that her heart was given to his eldest brother.
He had submitted to his disappointment; and they had met
thenceforth as cousins and friends. Never before had she
associated the idea of him with embarrassing recollections.
But now, on the very day when his brother's marriage to another
woman had consummated his brother's treason towards her, there was
something vaguely repellent in the prospect of seeing him.
The old nurse (who remembered them both in their cradles)
observed her hesitation; and sympathising of course with the man,
put in a timely word for Henry. 'He says, he's going away, my dear;
and he only wants to shake hands, and say good-bye.' This plain
statement of the case had its effect. Agnes decided on receiving
her cousin.

He entered the room so rapidly that he surprised her in the act
of throwing the fragments of Montbarry's last letter into the fire.
She hurriedly spoke first.

'You are leaving London very suddenly, Henry. Is it business?
or pleasure?'

Instead of answering her, he pointed to the flaming letter,
and to some black ashes of burnt paper lying lightly in the lower
part of the fireplace.

'Are you burning letters?'