"Certainly not. That is your business. And remember, you have to be firm—firm! He is on no account to see Doris, and he is not to come again. You have to get rid of him, once and for all."
Mr. Winton knew the need, but he hated the task before him.
"Well, well," he muttered, and was going off as he was, till a scandalised forefinger pointed at his workaday apron. "Oh, ah!— I forgot!"—and he tossed it off.
Three minutes later he was in the study; a broad, ungainly figure, seamed and rugged in face, awkward in bearing; not the type of father pictured beforehand by the young fellow who stood awaiting him. Yet in those deep-set eyes was a gleam of something which found its way to Maurice's sore heart, and gave him a sense that at least he would be understood.
The Rector put out his hand, and it was gripped with a force which told of passion below.
Now that suspense was about to be ended, Maurice hardly knew how to hold himself in.
"Sit down, please," Mr. Winton said, and took the lead in doing so,— his gaze bent searchingly upon the other.
"You don't need to be told who I am, Mr. Winton,—or why I've come. My name is Richard Maurice; and I am here to ask for your daughter's hand." The burning dark-grey eyes looked full at him; and the Rector liked them, liked the good open brow above, liked the frank, manly carriage. If only it had been possible, he felt that he would have welcomed such a husband for his child.
"My daughter has written to you."
There was a short, scornful laugh.