He caressed her, soothingly.
“My dear! My beloved! My dear, dear Betty! Of course I love you! You and Maisie are all I have in the world—and it’s mostly you!—Oh, I know I’ve been a fool! I’ve thought only of my selfish ambition. But, dear, try me again! I’ll be so much kinder to you, so much more thoughtful.—And we’ll forget all this. Never remember it. I won’t even ask you the man’s name.”
She half-raised her head from his shoulder, swallowed tearfully.
“There—there wasn’t any man!” she said, and broke down again into a passion of sobs that would not cease.
* * * * * *
As he expected, the young man was waiting for him. Maisie was waiting also, standing very tall and rigid by the window, in all the dignity of youth measuring swords with the parental generation. He thought, as he came into the centre of the room, how like her mother she was—her mother twenty years ago, when she had faced her father. He nearly smiled at the remembrance, checked himself with a thought of the matter in hand. This, of course, was quite different!
The young man rose to meet him. They shook hands with the amount of stiffness proper to the occasion. He found himself suddenly wishing that Betty were here, after all. He had been hasty in telling her to keep out of the way. She could handle Maisie more tactfully than he could. Very reasonable woman, Betty—she had seen his point of view at once. These thoughts passed swiftly through his mind as he invited the young man to a chair, seated himself. There was an awkward silence.
He and the young man broke it at the same instant.
“You wanted to speak to me——?”
“I think you understand, sir——”