Fanshawe stood, struck dumb, as a man of his breeding and character could not fail to be by such a rude and foolish reception of his message. He did not know how to reply. They spoke, as it were, another language, of which he had no comprehension. “I had better withdraw, I think,” he said. “I don’t know what I can add, or reply; there is nothing, so far as I know, that I can say more.” “Oh, I don’t doubt Marjory entrusted you with a great deal more to say!” cried Mrs. Charles. “She wanted to humble us; but you may tell her she sha’n’t humble us. We are people who can defend ourselves. If she isn’t clever enough even to make up a better story than this--” “I think,” said Fanshawe, “it would be well to leave Miss Heriot out of the discussion; she has nothing to do with it--and, as it is evident, that you do not in the least understand her--” “What do you mean, Sir, by saying Mrs. Charles does not understand?” said Hepburn, coming from his window. A burning flush covered the young man’s face; his eyes looked hot and bloodshot, and the veins were knotted upon his forehead; he was suffering such agonies of shame and pain as few people, perhaps, have gone through; shame for the woman whom he loved. Yes, though he was ashamed of her, though he perceived her meanness, her prettiness, her folly, still he loved her. He had stood aloof as long as he could; now, when the tugging at his heart, as well as her impatient looks, called him to her side--when very shame impelled him to come to her defence, to save her from her own folly, to hide from himself the gnawing pangs of his own shame--that shame took the fiercer form of passion. If he had worn a sword he would have drawn it; if there had been any other foolish way of rushing into mortal conflict he would have adopted it. It was the writhing of his own pain which excited him, but he tried to make it look like indignation. “If you have anything to say to Mrs. Charles, Sir,” he added fiercely, “or any objections to make, be so good as to address yourself to me.” “To you! why should I?” cried Fanshawe, more amazed than ever. “Because she has given me the privilege of standing between her and all impertinent intruders,” cried the unhappy young man, taking her hand in an agony of self-humiliation. Poor boy! he identified himself with her publicly at the moment when he saw most distinctly and suffered most sharply from the revelation of her character, which, to do her justice, she had never meant to withhold from him. He almost hated her in the vehemence of his love; hated her for not being what he would have had her, with a hatred which somehow intensified his passion. The sight was so strange and painful that it subdued the impulse of anger in Fanshawe’s mind. “In that case,” he said gravely, “since I can neither fight with you, nor argue with you, I will withdraw, Mr. Hepburn; and Mr. Heriot’s communication can be made officially--if necessary, to you. Good morning, I have no more to say.”