A relaxation of the tense muscles, a droop of the head, showed that at last Maurice saw it too, to some extent.
"Mr. Stirling—knows more!"
"If so—the reasons that silence your mother silence him also." After a break, Mr. Winton went on,—"It must, I fear, mean a measure of suffering for you both; not, I hope, lasting pain. Doris, I cannot doubt, would suffer more in the end if the engagement were allowed. I am very sorry to have to say it, but—you cannot have our child. You must forget her!"
"Forget Doris!" The words were wrung from him. Then he stood upright. "Of course, there is no more to be said—since she herself gives me up. I could not have believed her to be fickle, but—but—"
"You have known one another only a few weeks. The impression may soon pass."
"Thanks!"—satirically. "Women are sometimes made of such stuff, I believe!" He stopped, conscious that this was ungenerous. "It will never pass, with me. I cannot believe that it will—soon—with her. Mr. Winton—one word more. She knew how things were, when she accepted me."
"She realises now, as she did not then, all that would be involved." The Rector stood up, again offering his hand. "Try to meet this bravely," he urged. "Try to think of her happiness—not only of your own. Remember that a time might come when she would be tempted to repent having married you. Could you wish that?"
"If your daughter became my wife, she would marry me for myself, not for my relatives!"
Mr. Winton's troubled eyes noted the pose, the uplifted head, the proudly-confident air; and that which he saw came as a surprise. It was the reproduction of a manner to which he was accustomed.
"Tell Doris, please, that I have her letter, and that I accept her decision. I shall never come again,—and—I shall never forget her."