"And you have come to tell me about that!"
"I didn't mean to do so. I came to speak to one of the only two friends I have in the world besides my mother. I came to speak to you while—while you would speak to me. And now I've gone and spoilt it all!"
"Of course you haven't," said the girl, with her kind smile. "Sit down and tell me all about it. I think all the more of you for saying the worst thing first." Yet she looked alarmed, and her tone was only less agitated than his.
"It is not the worst," groaned Harry Ringrose, "and I can't sit down to say the sort of thing I've come to say. Oh, but I was a coward to come to you at all! It was because I had no one else to turn to; and you have always been my friend; but it was a cowardly thing to do! I will go away again without saying a word."
She had sunk down upon her low chair, and was leaning forward so that he could not see her face, but only the red gold of her hair in the ruddy firelight.
"No; now you must go on," she said, without raising her face.
"It is about your father—and mine."
"I expected that."
"I asked him some plain questions which he could not—or would not—answer. In desperation—in distraction—I have come to put those questions to you!"
"It is useless," was the low reply. "I cannot answer them—either."