“Claire, my child, is her room ready?”
“Yes; Morton’s room is prepared in case he came back. She will sleep there unless—May, will you come to me?”
“Yes, yes,” cried the little girlish thing, in a quick excited way. “No, no; I’ll be alone. Let me go now—at once.”
Claire fetched and gave her a lighted candle, finding her clinging passionately to her father, looking, as it seemed to the thoughtful woman, like some frightened child.
She kissed him hastily, and seemed to snatch the candle from her sister’s hand.
“Good-night, Claire,” she cried, holding up her face, and clinging tightly to her sister’s arm.
“I am going with you, dear—as I used to in the old times,” said Claire, smiling; and they left the room together.
“Without one word to me,” said Denville, as he stood with clasped hands gazing at the door. “Well, why should I be surprised? What must I be in her sight? Her father! Yes, but a monster without pity—utterly vile.”
He heaved a piteous sigh, as he sank into a chair.
“No,” he said to himself, “I will not influence her in any way. I will not stir. It would be too cruel. But if—if she should lean towards him—who knows?—women have accepted the wealth and position such as he offers. No, I will not stir.”