true way....

As Amherst approached, in his evening clothes, the heavy locks smoothed
from his forehead, a flower of Cicely's giving in his button-hole, she
thought she had never seen him look so kind and handsome.

"Not dressed? Do you know that it's ten minutes to eight?" he said,
coming up to her with a smile.

She roused herself, putting her hands to her hair. "Yes, I know--I
forgot," she murmured, longing to feel his arms about her, but standing
rooted to the ground, unable to move an inch nearer.

It was he who came close, drawing her lifted hands into his. "You look
worried--I hope it was nothing troublesome that made you forget?"

The divine kindness in his voice, his eyes! Yes--it would be easy, quite
easy, to tell him....

"No--yes--I was a little troubled...." she said, feeling the warmth of
his touch flow through her hands reassuringly.

"Dear! What about?"

She drew a deep breath. "The letter----"

He looked puzzled. "What letter?"

"Downstairs...when we came in...it was not an ordinary begging-letter."

"No? What then?" he asked, his face clouding.

She noticed the change, and it frightened her. Was he angry? Was he
going to be angry? But how absurd! He was only distressed at her
distress.

"What then?" he repeated, more gently.

She looked up into his eyes for an instant. "It was a horrible
letter----" she whispered, as she pressed her clasped hands against him.

His grasp tightened on her wrists, and again the stern look crossed his
face. "Horrible? What do you mean?"

She had never seen him angry--but she felt suddenly that, to the guilty
creature, his anger would be terrible. He would crush Wyant--she must be
careful how she spoke.

"I didn't mean that--only painful...."

"Where is the letter? Let me see it."

"Oh, no" she exclaimed, shrinking away.

"Justine, what has happened? What ails you?"

On a blind impulse she had backed toward the hearth, propping her arms
against the mantel-piece while she stole a secret glance at the embers.
Nothing remained of it--no, nothing.

But suppose it was against herself that his anger turned? The idea was
preposterous, yet she trembled at it. It was clear that she must say
_something_ at once--must somehow account for her agitation. But the
sense that she was unnerved--no longer in control of her face, her
voice--made her feel that she would tell her story badly if she told it
now.... Had she not the right to gain a respite, to choose h