of her shame!

But she remained alone. There was no springing to her side; no
rapture of declared affection; no obliteration of her shame. She had
to bear it all alone. There, in the open; under the eyes that she
would fain have seen any other phase of her distress. Her heart beat
loud and fast; she waited to gain her self-control.

Leonard Everard had his faults, plenty of them, and he was in truth
composed of an amalgam of far baser metals than Stephen thought; but
he had been born of gentle blood and reared amongst gentlefolk. He
did not quite understand the cause or the amount of his companion's
concern; but he could not but recognise her distress. He realised
that it had followed hard upon her most generous intention towards
himself. He could not, therefore, do less than try to comfort her,
and he began his task in a conventional way, but with a blundering
awkwardness which was all manlike. He took her hand and held it in
his; this much at any rate he had learned in sitting on stairs or in
conservatories after extra dances. He said as tenderly as he could,
but with an impatient gesture unseen by her:

'Forgive me, Stephen! I suppose I have said or done something which
I shouldn't. But I don't know what it is; upon my honour I don't.
Anyhow, I am truly sorry for it. Cheer up, old girl! I'm not your
husband, you know; so you needn't be distressed.'

Stephen took her courage a deux mains. If Leonard would not speak
she must. It was manifestly impossible that the matter could be left
in its present state.