“I presume this to be a second case of ‘not really,’” Mr. Brooke said in a cynical manner.
“No, it is not. He is my father,” Joan retorted, her black brows drawing together over the dark eyes with a look of positive fury for an instant. Little knew Joan how familiar that look was to the white-haired old gentleman in front of her. A strange expression came into his face—of pain, of wrath, of positive fear. His lips were livid, and the full snowy eyebrows above his black eyes contracted into one straight line, after the manner of Joan herself.
“Your name is Rutherford, then?” he said hoarsely, as if not quite able to control himself.
Joan’s face too had become colorless, but she suddenly grew cool and self-controlled.
“I am Mr. Rutherford’s child,” she said slowly. “I belong to him, and to no one else. He is my own dear, dearest father. Nothing else matters—to me or to anybody. I do not see that it concerns strangers; and I did not come here to be catechised. Nessie, if you like to stay, you may; but I am going home at once. The carriage can be sent for you.”
Nessie looked frightened, and Mrs. St. John came forward, with an appealing—
“My dear Mr. Brooke.”
“Stay! One moment;” and Mr. Brooke laid on the girl’s arm a detaining hand, which she indignantly shook off—“one moment, pray! You need not fear that I shall trouble you after to-day. But I have a wish—an impertinent curiosity if you like to term it so—I have a wish to know whether Rutherford is your name.”
A pause and then—
“No, it is not,” said Joan.