She sat a while, thinking deeply. Should she tell the Governor? Should she preserve the secret, tell no one? Should she demand the truth of Parkington himself, and let his story determine her future action? She heard him and Brandon descend the stairs, and go out on the esplanade. Brandon! he knew the secret--he knew that Parkington was an impostor--he knew _all_. She had heard Constable's story of the meeting at the Coffee-house--the surprise shown. Bah! it was prearranged, determined upon beforehand; a play, acted for the express benefit of the onlookers.--Should she block it, now, walk out and, before the whole company, read Lady Catherwood's letter? It would be effective--far more so than his play at the Coffee-house. In fact, it would be conclusive.--Yet, he had always been very gallant to her, very devoted, very sympathetic. (She looked out through the window.) Yes, and he was a gentleman, too. No man had such manners, such grace, such ease of bearing, otherwise. The longer she looked, the more her heart misgave her. She could not do it. She would wait until after supper, take him for a walk, down to the water, and get him to confess the masquerade and the reason for it. She refused to think that there was any wrong intended. He was better than the real Sir Edward, a thousand times better. And she liked him--liked him more than any man she had ever met, save only Richard Maynadier; and Richard Maynadier (she had known it since the night he kissed her, at Hedgely Hall) was not for her. There was no love in his lips, though there had been plenty of ardor. A little twinge of bitterness took possession of her. Why was she born poor?--why could she not have had rank and riches instead of beauty? Presently, she saw the butler go out and announce supper; she arose and joined the party as they came trooping in. She had Parkington and Brandon on either hand, and she watched them, covertly, all through the meal, trying to pick some flaw in their bearing, something that would not be quite right in their behaviour. But she failed--as she had felt sure she would. They had only to be natural, to be themselves, to ring true. Parkington he was not, and Brandon might be false, also, but, assuredly, they came of the stock they professed--and, may be, of better. "I have got something to say to you, when you join us," she whispered to Sir Edward, as the ladies arose to retire. "Don't be overlong." "I will come at once," he said, as he drew back her chair. "No--in a half hour. I will be down in the rose-walk, you may join me there." "On the instant!" he exclaimed--and watched her as she went slowly down the table, flinging a bantering word, here and there, the men bowing, and smiling, and flinging it back again. "Yes, you may well look at her," said Brandon. "She has the beauty and grace of the best of them at Court. She is the Governor's niece, I take it?"