“And you have told her this?”
“No, never, never a word.”
“Does she know anything of this absurd, this silly attempt?”
“I am afraid not.”
“Ah! Then you have spared yourself one humiliation. My daughter's affections are not likely to be placed where her parents do not approve. Her mother is her only confidante. I can tell you, Mr. Burnett, and when you are over this delusion you will thank me for being so plain with you, my daughter would laugh at the idea of such a proposal. But I will not have her annoyed by impecunious aspirants.”
“Madam!” cried Philip, rising, with a flushed face, and then he remembered that he was talking to Evelyn's mother, and uttered no other word.
“This is ended.” And then, with a slight change of manner, she went on: “You must see how impossible it is. You are a man of honor.
“I should like to think well of you. I shall trust to your honor that you will never try, by letter or otherwise, to hold any communication with her.”
“I shall obey you,” said Philip, quite stiffly, “because you are her mother. But I love her, and I shall always love her.”
Mrs. Mavick did not condescend to any reply to this, but she made a cold bow of dismissal and turned away from him. He left the house and walked away, scarcely knowing in which direction he went, anger for a time being uppermost in his mind, chagrin and defeat following, and with it the confused feeling of a man who has passed through a cyclone and been landed somewhere amid the scattered remnants of his possessions.