“No, Father.”
She felt, though in a greater degree, as she had often felt in childhood, when, in taking her to task for some naughtiness, he had worn this same sad and distant look. He had never punished her nominally; the pain he himself showed had always affected her as the severest reprimand never could have done.
She looked like a peaceful, sweet-faced nun in her simple white gown, that fell in long straight folds to her feet; not another sign of color was upon her.
A calmness pervaded her whole person as she paced the softly lighted drawing-room and waited for Kemp.
When he was shown into the room, this tranquillity struck him immediately.
She stood quite still as he came toward her. He certainly had some old-time manners, for the reverence he felt for her caused him first of all to raise her hand to his lips. The curious, well-known flush rose slowly to her sensitive face at the action; when he had caught her swiftly to him, a sobbing sigh escaped her.
“What is it?” he asked, drawing her down to a seat beside him. “Are you tired of me already, love?”
“Not of you; of waiting,” she answered, half shyly meeting his look.
“I hardly expected this,” he said after a pause; “has your father flown bodily from the enemy and left you to face him alone?”
“Not exactly. But really it was kind of him to keep away for a while, was it not?” she asked simply.