The young lady, who was taking her hat off, left the room.
Jones fished in a pocket. "It is very good of you. Here, if you please, is your fee. The document is not a will, it is a release."
As the novelist spoke, he put the pen in the musician's hand and, finding it necessary, or thinking that it was, for, as he afterward realised, it was not, he guided it.
"You acknowledge this——" the notary began. But at the moment Cassy returned and, it may be, distracted by her, he mumbled the rest, took the reply for granted, applied the stamp, exhibited his teeth. Then, at once, the hall had him.
Cassy turned to Jones. Her face disclosed as many emotions as an opal has colours. Relief, longing, uncertainty, and distress were there, ringed in beauty.
"Miss Austen ought to know how she has misjudged him. Do you suppose she would let me see her?"
Bully for you! thought Jones, who said: "I cannot imagine any one refusing you anything."
In speaking, he heard something. Cassy turned. She too had heard it. But what?
With a cry she ran to the sofa. "Daddy!"
His face was grey, the grey that dawn has, the grey than which there is nothing greyer and yet in which there is light. That light was there. His upper-lip was just a little raised. It was as though he had seen something that pleased him and of which he was about to tell.