“I suppose I have been blind. This blow has come upon me with fearful suddenness—I suspected nothing—nothing. How could I——”
The door opened.
Quentillian looked round thankfully at Lucilla. She did not go up to her father, but spoke quietly from the door.
“Father, don’t you think Owen should come to dinner?”
A quick frown drew the Canon’s always formidable brows together.
“Since when do my children interrupt me in my own room, at my work, Lucilla?” he enquired.
Her face did not change, but she looked at Quentillian.
“Thank you,” he said quickly. “I will come.”
The Canon rose. His hand went once more to the resting-place now rapidly becoming habitual to it—Quentillian’s shoulder.
“Do not let my foolish child impose her trivial urgencies upon you.”