“You cannot advise me?” said the count.
“I have no right to advise you,” I responded.
He rose with a strange look at me, and began to walk up and down the room with his fingers at his lips. I have wounded myself in reading what I have already written about his prison look. I had learned to know him as so high-minded, so brave and so honorable a gentleman that it pains me even to think of the jail-bird aspect which came upon him at times. His walk up and down my room became something very like a prowl, and he fell to casting furtive glances at me, biting his finger ends, and murmuring inarticulately below his breath.
“You have some reason for this,” he said, suddenly. “You do not refuse to help me in such a matter for nothing.”
“I have the best of all reasons,” I answered. “I cannot advise, because I have no right to advise.”
“I give you the right by asking for advice,” he said, turning round upon me. “Is it kind to refuse me in this? I am a stranger to the world—a child, and less than a child. I owe to this man and to you everything I am and all I have. But—may I tell you?—I mistrust him. I do not care to leave my daughter's happiness in his charge.”
I made a successful struggle to control myself, and I answered him quietly:
“You must know, sir, that in England young people arrange these matters very much for themselves. I have no doubt that Miss Rossano will attach full weight to your judgment and counsel. I am very sorry, but I have no right to advise you even at your own request.”
“I had hoped for another answer,” he responded. “I had even ventured to think—Ah, well, my dear Fyffe, I cannot help myself, and if you will not help me—”
“I would, sir, if I could,” I answered.