“No, then, it was not. He came from London on the afternoon train, and Miss Tresham had a bad headache and could not set me home as she always does.”
“You should have come home alone. There was nothing to fear you.”
“’Tis the first time.”
“And, my dear, ’tis the last time. Mind that! ’Twill be a bad hour for Roland Tresham if I see him making love to my girl again.”
“He didn’t say a word of love to me, father.”
“Aw, then, he was looking it––more shame to him, not to give looks words.”
“Cannot a man look at a pretty girl? I call that nonsense, father.”
“Roland Tresham can’t look at you, Denas, any more as I saw him looking at you to-night––bold and free, and sure and laughing to his own heart for the clever he was, and the devil in his eyes and on his tongue. ’Twas all wrong, my dear, or I wouldn’t be feeling so hot and angry about it. I wouldn’t be feeling as if my heart was cut loose from its moorings and sinking down and down as deep as fear can send it.”
“You might trust me, father.”