She sat down on the edge of the chair at the other side of the table. She wasn’t accustomed to sitting idle and didn’t know what to do with her hands, but she was sure it wouldn’t be manners to go on mending socks while a gentleman was in the room.
Jocelyn sat down too, the table between them, the light from the oil lamp hanging from the ceiling beating down on Sally’s head.
‘And Beauty was made flesh, and dwelt among us,’ he murmured, his eyes burning.
‘Pardon?’ said Sally, polite, but wishing her father would come back.
‘You lovely thing—you lovely, lovely thing,’ whispered Jocelyn hoarsely, his eyes like coals of fire.
At this Sally became thoroughly uneasy, and looked at him in real alarm.
‘Don’t be frightened. Your father knows. He says I may——’
‘Father?’ she repeated, much surprised.
‘Yes, yes—I asked him. He says I may. He says I may—may talk to you, make friends with you. That is,’ stammered Jocelyn, overcome by her loveliness, ‘if you’ll let me—oh, if you’ll let me....’
Sally was astonished at her father. ‘Well I never did,’ she murmured courteously. ‘Fancy father.’