"Well? Unless what?"
"Father, Mr. Lepel is very ill. They say that he has brain-fever. If he were dying, you would let me wait to say good-bye to him?"
She had put her hand through his arm, and was leaning against his shoulder. Her father looked at her sideways, with a rough pity mingled with admiration.
"Were you going to him now, Cynthia?"
"Yes, father."
"I've interrupted you. It's hard on you to have a father like me although he is an innocent man."
"I honor my father and I love him," was Cynthia's swift response. "My greatest grief is that he cannot be near me always."
There was a silence; the cab had quitted the smoother roads and entered on a course of rattling stones. It was difficult to speak so as to be heard; but Westwood raised his voice.
"Cynthia!"
"Yes, father."