“Miss Snowe,” said he, laying it down, “do you know my little girl’s age?”
“About eighteen, is it not, sir?”
“It seems so. This old pocket-book tells me she was born on the 5th of May, in the year 18—, eighteen years ago. It is strange; I had lost the just reckoning of her age. I thought of her as twelve—fourteen—an indefinite date; but she seemed a child.”
“She is about eighteen,” I repeated. “She is grown up; she will be no taller.”
“My little jewel!” said M. de Bassompierre, in a tone which penetrated like some of his daughter’s accents.
He sat very thoughtful.
“Sir, don’t grieve,” I said; for I knew his feelings, utterly unspoken as they were.
“She is the only pearl I have,” he said; “and now others will find out that she is pure and of price: they will covet her.”
I made no answer. Graham Bretton had dined with us that day; he had shone both in converse and looks: I know not what pride of bloom embellished his aspect and mellowed his intercourse. Under the stimulus of a high hope, something had unfolded in his whole manner which compelled attention. I think he had purposed on that day to indicate the origin of his endeavours, and the aim of his ambition. M. de Bassompierre had found himself forced, in a manner, to descry the direction and catch the character of his homage. Slow in remarking, he was logical in reasoning: having once seized the thread, it had guided him through a long labyrinth.
“Where is she?” he asked.