“Yes,” said the voice, with a sigh. “They all are. But, tell me, does she refuse you.”
“No, sir.”
“Then what more do you want? Who and what is she?”
These last words were said with more approach to interest, and the fingers began to tap the edge of the opening.
“It is presumption on my part,” said Huish, growing excited, and rising to stride up and down the room, “for I am poor and unworthy of her.”
“No true honourable man is unworthy of the woman he loves,” said the voice calmly, “though he may, perhaps, be unsuited. Go on. Who is the lady?”
“Who is she, sir? I believed that you must know. It is your niece—Gertrude.”
“My God!”
It was almost a whisper, but John Huish heard it, and saw that the thin white hand seemed to be jerked upwards, falling slowly back, though, to remain upon the edge of the opening trembling.
“I shock you, sir, by my announcement,” said Huish bitterly.