Saltash looked down at him with a comical twist of the eyebrows. "You're very analytical to-night. What's the matter?"
"Nothing," said Larpent bluntly. "Except that you're making a mistake."
"Indeed?" For a moment Saltash's look was haughty; then he began to smile again. "I see you're burning to give your advice," he said tolerantly. "Fire away, if it does you any good!"
Larpent's eyes, very steady under their fair, bushy brows, were still unwaveringly upon him. "No, I don't presume to give you advice," he said. "But I'll tell you something which you may or may not know. That young woman you have so kindly bestowed upon me as a daughter worships the ground you tread on, and—that being the case—she isn't very likely to make a dazzling success of it if she marries young Bernard Brian."
He ceased to speak, and simultaneously Saltash jerked himself to his feet with a short French oath that sounded like the snarl of an angry animal. He went across to the windows that were thrown wide to the summer night and stood before one of them with his head flung back in the attitude of one who challenges the universe.
Larpent lay back in his chair with the air of a man who has said his say. He did not even glance towards his companion, and there followed a considerable pause before either of them spoke again.
Abruptly at length Saltash wheeled.
"Larpent!" There was something of a whip-lash quality about his voice; it seemed to cut the silence. "Why the devil do you tell me this? Can't you see that it's the very thing I'm guarding against? Young Bunny is the best remedy she could take for a disease of that kind. And after all,—she's only a child."
"Do you say that for your own benefit or for mine?" said Larpent, without turning his head.
"What do you mean?" Savagely Saltash flung the question, but the man in the chair remained unmoved.