"In what way?"
"I can't understand yet why—why you want me. You see, I—I have thought lately that—that you positively disliked me, Mr. Denby." Her chin came up with the little determined lift so like her mother.
With a jerk Burke Denby got to his feet and resumed his nervous stride up and down the room.
"My child,"—he turned squarely about and faced her,—"I want you. I need you. This house has become nothing but a dreary old pile of horror to me. You, by some sweet necromancy of your own, have contrived to make the sun shine into its windows. It's the first time for years that there has been any sun—for me. But when you go, the sun goes. That's why I want you here all the time. Will you come? Of course, you understand I mean adoption—legally. But I don't want to dwell on that part. I want you to want to come. I want you to be happy here. Won't you come?"
Betty drew in her breath tremulously. For a long minute her gaze searched the man's face.
"Well, Miss Betty?" There was a confident smile in his eyes. He had the air of a man who has made a certain somewhat dreaded move, but who has no doubt as to the outcome.
"I'm afraid I—can't, Mr. Denby."
"You—can't!"
Betty, in spite of her very real and serious concern and anxiety, almost laughed at the absolute amazement on the man's face.
"No, Mr. Denby."