He coughed gently.
“It was inevitable,” he declared. “It is not, of course, a pleasant subject of conversation for you or for me, yet I think I may venture to suggest to you that your sister’s—er—indiscretions—have reached a point which makes a separation between you almost a necessity.”
She covered her face with her hands.
“It—it—must come,” she faltered.
“I do not lay claim,” he continued, “to any remarkable amount of insight, but it is possible, is it not, that I have stumbled upon your present cause of distress.”
“You are wonderful!” she murmured.
He smiled complacently.
“Not at all. This is simply a chapter of coincidences. Now what I want you to feel is this. I want you to feel that you have found a friend who has a strong desire to be of service to you. Treat me as an elder brother, if you like. He is here by your side. How can he help you?”
She threw such a look upon him that even he, Sir John Ferringhall, carpet-merchant, hide-bound Englishman, slow-witted, pompous, deliberate, felt his heart beat to music. Perhaps the Parisian atmosphere had affected him. He leaned towards her, laid his hand tenderly upon hers.
“I hope you realize,” he went on, in a lower and less assured tone, “that I am in earnest—very much in earnest. You must let me do whatever I can for you. I shall count it a privilege.”