“Is she—do you think she—”
He trailed off in his speech, and ended by looking imploringly in his daughter’s face.
“I dare not say,” said Claire mournfully. “Father, she is very ill.”
“Then you must nurse her, Claire,” said the old man excitedly, as he caught her hand to hold it tightly. “You must get her well, so that we can go—all go—far away—where we are not known. We cannot stay here in misery and debt and disgrace. Everything is against us now. My old position is gone. I dare not walk to the Assembly-Room, for fear of some insult or slight. I am the Master of the Ceremonies only in name. I am disgraced.”
“Then we will go,” said Claire sadly; “but it cannot be yet. Have patience, dear.”
She laid her hand upon the old man’s shoulder, and bent forward and kissed his cheek.
He caught her in his arms.
“You do not shrink from me?” he said bitterly.
“Shrink? No, father; I am your child. Now, tell me—about money—what are we to do?”
Denville shook his head.