Lesley was in a dilemma. Kenyon's words were so true, so apt, that they brought involuntary tears to her eyes. She could get rid of the lump in her throat only by working herself up into a rage: she could dissipate the tears only by making her eyes flash with anger. The melting mood was not to her taste. She chose the more hostile tone.
"Mr. Kenyon, excuse me, but you have no right at all to talk about my being miserable. You may know my father: you do not know me."
"But knowing your father so well——"
"That has nothing to do with it. Am I not a separate human being? What have you to do with me and my feelings? You say that I do not know English ways—is it an English way," cried Lesley, indignantly, "to try to thrust yourself into a girl's confidence, and intrude where you have not been asked to enter? Then English ways are not those that I approve."
Maurice Kenyon felt that his cause was lost. He had gone rather white about the lips as he listened to Lesley's protest. Of course, he had offended her by his abominable want of tact, he told himself—his intrusive proffer of unneeded sympathy and help. But it was not in his nature to acknowledge himself beaten, and to take his leave without a word. His ardor impelled him to speak.
"Miss Brooke, I most sincerely beg your pardon," he said, in tones of deep humility. "I see that I have made a mistake—but I assure you that it was from the purest motives. I don't"—forgetting his apologetic attitude for a moment—"I don't think that you realize what a truly great man your father is—how good, as well as great. I don't think you understand him. But I beg your pardon for seeming to think that I could enlighten you. Of course, it must seem like impertinent interference to you. But if you knew"—with a tremor of disappointment in his voice—"what your father has been to me, you would not perhaps be so surprised at my wanting his daughter to sympathize with me in my feelings. I had no idea"—this was intended to be a Parthian shot—"that my admiration would be thought insulting."
He bowed very low, and turned to depart, vowing to himself that nothing would induce him ever to enter that drawing-room again; but Lesley, pale and wide-eyed, called him back.
"Stay, Mr. Kenyon," she said, rising from her seat.
He halted, his hat in one hand, his fingers still on the knob of the door.
"I never meant to say," said Lesley, confronting him, "that I was incapable of sympathy with you in admiration for my father. With my feeling towards him you have nothing to do—that is all. I am not angry because you express your own sentiments, but because——"