He turned, and stalked out of the room; returned in a minute, and flung down a duplicate draft of the poem on the table before me. I put down the crackers, took up the paper, and finished my reading of it.
“Jack,” I said, “I beg your pardon. It does credit to your heart—you understand the emphasis? You are a young gentleman of some prospects. Miss Gray is a young lady of none.”
He hesitated a moment; then flung himself on his knees before me. He was only a great boy.
“Dad,” he said; “dear old Dad; you’ve seen them—you’ve seen her?”
I admitted the facts. “But that is not at all an answer to me,” I said.
“Where is she?” he entreated, pawing me.
“You don’t know?”
“Not from Adam. I drove her hard, and she ran away from me. She said she would, if I insisted—not to kill those same prospects of mine. My prospects! Good God! What are they without her? She left her old rooms, and no address. How did you get to see her—and my stuff?”
I could satisfy him on these points.
“But it’s true,” he said; “and—and I’m in love, Dad—Dad, I’m in love.”