THE TOUCHSTONE
"Is that what you imply?" he pressed her.
"No" she answered with sudden directness. "I noticed some time ago that you seemed to dislike him, but since then—"
"Well—since then?"
"I've imagined that you had reasons for still wishing me to be civil to him, as you call it."
"Ah," said Glennard with an effort at lightness; but his irony dropped, for something in her voice made him feel that he and she stood at last in that naked desert of apprehension where meaning skulks vainly behind speech.
"And why did you imagine this?" The blood mounted to his forehead. "Because he told you that I was under obligations to him?"
She turned pale. "Under obligations?"
"Oh, don't let's beat about the bush. Didn't he tell you it was I who published Mrs. Aubyn's letters? Answer me that."
"No," she said; and after a moment which seemed given to the weighing of alternatives, she added: "No one told me."
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