"I do not wish to see my father," I said. "If he comes to me I shall tell him so."
"He wants to tell you his story himself," she murmured.
"I would never listen to it," I answered. She sighed.
"You are very young," she said. "You do not know what temptation is. You do not know how badly he was treated. You have heard his history, perhaps, from his enemies. He is getting old now, Guy. I think that if you saw him now you would pity him."
"My pity," I answered, "would never be strong enough to suffer me to open the door to him—if he should come. He has left me alone all these years. The only favour I would ever ask of him would be that he continues to do so."
"You will believe the story of strangers?"
"No one in the world could be a greater stranger to me than he." She sighed.
"You will not even let me be your friend," she pleaded. "You are young, you are perhaps ambitious. There may be many ways in which I could help you."
"As you helped my father, perhaps," I answered bitterly. "Thank you, I have no need of friends—that sort of friends."
Her eyes seemed to narrow a little, and the smile upon her lips was forced.