Bertram looked full in the other's face. Had he been content to do so and to say nothing, he would have gained his point, and the subject would have been at once dropped. Harcourt then could have gone no further. But Bertram was now angry, and, being angry, he could not but speak. "Harcourt, you have interfered once before between me and Miss Waddington--" "Interfered!" "Yes, interfered--in what I then thought and still think to have been a very unwarrantable manner." "It was a pity you did not tell me of it at the time." "It is a pity rather that you should drive me to tell you of it now; but you do so. When I was in Paris, you said to Miss Waddington what you had no right to say." "What did I say?" "Or, rather, she said to you--" "Ah! that was no fault of mine." "But it was a fault of yours. Do you think that I cannot understand? that I cannot see? She would have been silent enough to you but for your encouragement. I do not know that I was ever so vexed as when I received that letter from you. You took upon yourself--" "I know you were angry, very angry. But that was not my fault. I said nothing but what a friend under such circumstances was bound to say." "Well, let the matter drop now; and let Miss Waddington and myself settle our own affairs." "I cannot let the matter drop; you have driven me to defend myself, and I must do it as best I may. I know that you were angry, exceedingly angry-- "Exceedingly angry!" he repeated; "but that was no fault of mine. When Miss Baker sent for me, I could not but go to her. When I was there, I could not but listen to her. When Caroline told me that she was wretched--" "Miss Waddington!" shouted Bertram, in a voice that caused the glasses to shake, and made the waiter turn round. And then suddenly recollecting himself, he scowled round the room as he observed that he was noticed. "Hush, my dear fellow. It shall be Miss Waddington; but not quite so loud. And I beg your pardon, but hearing the lady called by her Christian name so often, both by yourself and Miss Baker, I forgot myself. When she spoke to me of her wretched state, what was I to do? Was I to say, fie! fie! and take my hat and go away? "She was very wretched," he continued, for Bertram merely scowled and said nothing, "and I could not but sympathize with her. She thought that you had neglected her. It was clear that you had gone abroad without telling her. Was it to be wondered at that she should be unhappy?" "Her telling you that she was so was unexcusable." "At any rate, I am blameless. I myself think that she was also; but that is another question. In what I wrote to you, I did my duty as a friend to both parties. After that, I do confess that I thought your anger too great to allow you ever to stand at the altar with her." "You do not mean to say that she showed you my letter?" said Bertram, almost leaping at him. "Your letter! what letter?"