“Why didn’t you tell me that you had a lady—ladies with you?” half angrily, half apologetically. Then he turned quickly, impulsively, to Una. “I hope you will forgive me. I had no idea that there was anyone here excepting himself. Of course I would rather have got into the first ditch than have disturbed you. I hope, I do hope you believe that, though I can’t hope you’ll forgive me. Good-night,” and inclining his head he turned to the door.
Una, who had listened with an intent, rapt look on her face, as one sees a blind man listen to music, drew a little breath of regret as he ceased speaking, and then, with a little, quick gesture, laid her hand on her father’s arm.
It was an imploring touch. It said as plainly as if she had spoken:
“Do not let him go.”
“Having forced your way into my house you—may remain.”
“Thanks. I should not think of doing so. Good-night.”
“No; you must not go. He does not mean it. You have made him angry. Please do not go!”
The young man hesitated, and the woodman, with a gesture that was one of resigned despair, shut the door.
Then he turned and pointed to the next room.
“There’s a fire there,” he said.