He got up and moved about the room as he
spoke, while Diana sat, looking at him, her lips trembling from time to
time. Presently he mentioned Ferrier's name, and Diana started.
"Does _he_ think it would do you harm--that you ought to give me up?"
"Not he! And if anybody can make my mother hear reason, it will be
Ferrier."
"Lady Lucy believes it would injure you in Parliament?" faltered Diana.
"No, I don't believe she does. No sane person could."
"Then it's because--of the disgrace? Oliver!--perhaps--you ought to give
me up?"
She breathed quick. It stabbed him to see the flush in her cheeks
contending with the misery in her eyes. She could not pose, or play a
part. What she could not hide from him was just the conflict between her
love and her new-born shame. Before that scene on the hill there would
have been her girlish dignity also to reckon with. But the greater had
swallowed up the less; and from her own love--in innocent and simple
faith--she imagined his.
So that when she spoke of his giving her up, it was not her pride that
spoke, but only and truly her fear of doing him a hurt--by which she
meant a hurt in public estimation or repute.
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