“Try,” said Barclay, taking his hand. “Come, you are in trouble about your daughter.”
“Yes,” cried Denville quickly. “How did you know?”
“Never mind how I know. Now then, speak out, what do you know?”
“Only that there is some fresh gossip afloat, mixing up my daughter’s name with that of one of the reckless fops of this place.”
“Claire Denville’s?”
“Yes, my dear sir. It is most cruel. These people do not think of the agony it causes those who love their children. I heard that my child had come here—ah, here is Mrs Barclay back. My dear madam, I came to bear my daughter company home, to stay with her, and to show these wretched scandal-mongers that there is no truth in the story that has been put about.”
“Have you told him, Jo-si-ah?”
“No, madam,” cried Denville; “there was no need. Some cruel enemy contrived that I should hear of it—this wretched scandal. But you’ll pardon me—the lies, the contemptible falsehoods of the miserable idlers who find pleasure in such stories. My daughter Claire has been maligned before. She can bear it again, and by her sweet truthfulness live down all such falsities.”
“But, Mr Denville!” cried Mrs Barclay.
“Hush, ma’am, pray. A father’s feelings. You’ll pardon me. We can scorn these wretched attacks. My child Claire is above them. I shall take no notice; I wished, however, to be by her side. She will return here, you say?”