"That does not interest me. What I wish to know is whether you are free to marry or not."
"Frankly, I don't know, Mrs. Kildare. The lawyers are to settle that."
"And not knowing, you have dared to court my daughter Jacqueline?"
The repetition of the old-fashioned phrase jarred his over-strung nerves. "My dear lady, if you mean by 'courting,' Have I proposed marriage to your daughter? I have not. If you mean, Have I made love to her? Yes. Naturally. Why not? I assure you, she has met me more than half way."
The instant the words were out, he would have given much to recall them. Why could he not have been simple and natural, told her that he loved Jacqueline, and that he was most heartily ashamed of himself?
Kate reached for the bell-rope and jerked it. When Lige came running—the service at Storm was not elegant, but it was prompt—she said, "Pack Mr. Channing's bag, and bring it down at once."
Then she spoke to Channing without looking at him. "My little girl is only seventeen. You are the nephew of my oldest and most trusted friend. It has never occurred to me to warn my daughters against gentlemen. I had forgotten it was necessary. I blame myself very deeply.—Now you will give me your word to make no effort to communicate with Jacqueline again in any way."
He protested. "Surely you will let me see her once, Mrs. Kildare! To explain?—to—to say good-by?"
"Certainly, in my presence. Your word of honor, please."
He gave it with as much dignity as he could muster.