"What is it, Clarissa?" he asks, hastily, though he is far from suspecting the truth. Some faint thought of James Scrope (why he knows not) comes to him at this moment, and not unpleasingly. "Tell me, darling. Anything that concerns you must, of necessity, concern me also."
"Yes, I am glad I know that," she says, speaking with some difficulty, but very earnestly. "To-day I met Horace Branscombe."
"Yes?" His face changes a little, from vague expectancy to distinct disappointment; but then she cannot see his face.
"And he asked me to be his wife—and—I said, Yes—if—if it pleases you, papa."
It is over. The dreaded announcement is made. The words that have cost her so much to utter have gone out into the air; and yet there is no answer!
For a full minute silence reigns, and then Clarissa lays her hand imploringly upon her father's shoulder. He is looking straight before him, his expression troubled and grave, his mouth compressed.
"Speak to me," says Clarissa, entreatingly.
After this he does speak.
"I wish it had been Dorian," he says, impulsively.
Then she takes her hand from his shoulder, as though it can no longer rest there in comfort, and her eyes fill with disappointed tears.