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." Like an impetuous torrent the words burst out.