The thought that she was waiting for his uncle's death revolted him at the moment, and though he forgave her afterwards, still the thought rankled.
It hurt him, in a sense, that she could _desire_ death--the death of another--to create her own content.
His mother had hinted at it only just now! Marian feared, she said--feared to step aboard his sinking ship.

Where, then, was her love, that perfect love that casteth out all fear?
A wave of anger rushes over him as he looks at her now--smiling, fair, with large, deep, gleaming eyes.

He tells himself he will know at once what it is she means--what is the worth of her love.
She is leaning towards him, a soft red rosebud crushed against her lips.
"Ah, yes! It is true.

I _did_ know you were coming," says she tenderly.
She gives a hasty, an almost imperceptible glance around.

Lady Rylton is often a little--just a _little_--prone to prying--especially of late; ever since the arrival of that small impossible heiress, for example; and then very softly she slips her hand into his.
"What an evening!" says she with delicate fervour.