To
him it seemed that his enemy passed then and there from thought, as his
name disappeared from the conversation. But his own words had raised
difficulties and turned the smooth path rough. They had renewed something
of the rebellious fit and given fresh life to the disorderly fancies.
They had roused her ready apprehensive pride, her swift resentment at the
idea of having her friends or her associates chosen for her. She would
have said most sincerely then that Marchmont was far more to her in her
heart than Quisante was or could be, but neither from Marchmont nor from
any man would she take orders to drop Quisante. While he opened his tale
of love, her fingers played with the invitation to Ashwood and her eyes
rested on Lady Richard's despairing declaration of the inevitable--"He's
coming!"
He almost won her; his soft "Can you love me?" went very near her heart.
She wanted to answer "Yes" and felt sure that it would be in reality a
true response, and that happiness would wait on and reward the decisive
word. But she was held back by an unconquerable indecision, a refusal (as
it seemed) of her whole being to be committed to the pledge.
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