The young man was ghastly pale, as he stood stock-still, staring at his father. Sir Adam was the first to recover something of equanimity, but the furrows in his face had suddenly grown deeper.
“Of course she has accepted you?” he asked.
“No—she knew about Mrs. Crosby.” That seemed sufficient explanation of Clare’s refusal. “How awful!” exclaimed Brook hoarsely, his mind going back to what seemed the main question just then. “How awful for you, Governor!”
“Well—it’s not pleasant,” said Sir Adam, turning to the window again. “So the girl refused you,” he said, musing, as he looked out. “Just like her mother, I suppose. Brook”—he paused.
“Yes?”
“So far as I’m concerned, it’s not so bad as you think. You needn’t pity me, you know. It’s just as well that we should have met—after twenty-seven years.”
“She knew you at once, of course?”
“She knew I was your father before I came. And, I say, Brook—she’s forgiven me at last.”
His voice was low and unsteady, and he resolutely kept his back turned.
“She’s one of the best women that ever lived,” he said. “Your mother’s the other.”