“You see I know all about it, and I want to show you that I’m no fine-weather friend.”
“Mr Poynter I have told you that I am ill; will you please to bring this visit to an end? I—I cannot bear it.”
“Yes, you can,” he said, in what was meant to be a soothing tone; “let’s have it over at once, and have done with it. I won’t hurry you. I only want to feel that it will be some day before long; and till then here’s my hand, and it don’t come to you empty. Say what’s troubling you, and what you want to pay, and there’s my cheque for it. I don’t care how much it is.”
“Mr Poynter,” cried Rich, “you force me to speak out. I cannot take your help, and what you wish is impossible.”
“Oh, no, it isn’t!” he said, smiling, and leaving his handkerchief hanging on his hat as he tried to take her hand, which she withdrew; “I saw the doctor the other day, before this upset. We had a long chat over it, and he was willing.”
“What! my father willing?”
“To give his consent? Yes.”
“It is impossible!” cried Rich.
“Oh, no, it isn’t, and what’s more, Hendon and I have often chatted this over together, and he’s willing, too. Now, I say, what is the use of making a fuss over it? There, we understand one another, and I want to help you at once.”
“Mr Poynter,” cried Rich, “I now calmly and firmly tell you that what you wish can never take place. Will you allow me to pass?”