"I think I remember hearing about them," he said, for the sake of saying something; "but—"
"I should like to go and talk with my father. Would you mind waiting?"
She made as though she would pass him, but he managed to bar her way.
"I wouldn't do that if I were you, Miss Guion. If he's not well it'll only upset him. Why not let everything be just as it is? You won't regret it a year hence—believe me. In nine things out of ten you'd know better than I; but this is the tenth thing, in which I know better than you. Why not trust me—and let me have a free hand?"
"I'm afraid I must go to my father. If you'll be kind enough to wait, I'll come back and tell you what he says. Then we shall know. Will you please let me pass?"
He moved to one side. He thought again of the woman in the English law-court. It was like this that she walked from the dock—erect, unflinching, graceful, with eyes fixed straight before her, as though she saw something in the air.
He watched her cross the hall to the foot of the staircase. There she paused pensively. In a minute or two she came back to the sitting-room door.
"If it should be like—like Jack Berrington," she said, from the threshold, with a kind of concentrated quiet in her manner, "then—what you suggested—would be more out of the question than ever."
"I don't see that," he returned, adopting her own tone. "I should think it would be just the other way."
She shook her head.