She sat, pen in
hand, staring at her employer.
'I don't understand what you mean, Mr. Mannering.' At which her
conscience whispered to her sharply, 'You guessed it already--in the
park!'
The Squire jumped to his feet, and came to stand excitedly in front
of her, his hands thrust into the high pockets of his waistcoat.
'I am _extremely_ sorry!' he said, with that _grand seigneur_
politeness he could put on when he chose--'but I am not able to
credit that statement. You make it honestly, of course, but that a
person of your intelligence, when you saw those gates, failed to put
two and two together, well!'--the Squire shook his head, and
shrugged his shoulders, became, in fact, one protesting gesture--'if
you ask me to believe it,' he continued, witheringly, 'I suppose I
must, but--'
'Mr. Mannering!' said Elizabeth earnestly, 'it would really be kind
of you to explain.'
Her blush had died away. She had fallen back in her chair, and was
meeting his attack with the steady, candid look that betrayed her
character.
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