"If I agree," she said, "will you give me back my letters?"
"No!" he answered.
"What are you going to do with them?"
"It depends," he said, "upon you. I enter into no engagement. I make
no promises. I simply remind you that it would be equally possible for
me to take my place in the world as a rehabilitated Wingrave Seton.
Ten years ago I yielded to sentiment. Today I have outlived it."
"Ten years ago," she murmured, "you were a hero. God knows what you
are now!"
"Exactly!" he answered smoothly. "I am free to admit that I am a
puzzle to myself. I find myself, in fact, a most interesting study."
"I consent," she said, with a little shudder. "I am going now."
"You are a sensible woman," he answered. "Aynesworth, show Lady Ruth
to her carriage."
She rose to her feet. Hung from her neck by a chain of fine gold, was
a large Chinchilla muff. She stood before him, and her hands had
sought its shelter. Timidly she withdrew one.
"Will you shake hands with me, Wingrave?" she asked timidly.
He shook his head.
"Forgive me," he said; "I may better my manners in America, but a
present I cannot."
She passed out of the room. Aynesworth followed, closing the door
behind them. In the corridor she stumbled, and caught at his arm for
support.
"Don't speak to me," she gasped. "Take me where I can sit down."
He found her a quiet corner in the drawing room. She sat perfectly
still for nearly five minutes, with her eyes closed.
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