“Sir Gordon!”
“My dear Miss Luttrell—there, I have known you so long that I may call you my dear child—I think you believe in me?”
“Believe in you, Sir Gordon?”
“Yes, that I have the instincts, I hope, of a gentleman; that I am your father’s very good friend; and that I reverence his child.”
“Oh yes, Sir Gordon,” said Millicent, placing her hand in his, as he extended it towards her.
“That is well, then,” he said; and there was another pause, during which he gazed thoughtfully at the hand he held for a few moments, and then raised it to his lips and allowed it afterwards to glide away.
Millicent flushed slightly, for, in spite of herself, the thought of her visitor’s object began to dawn upon her, though she refused to believe it at first.
“Let me see,” he said at last, “time slides away so fast. You must be three-and-twenty now.”
“I thought a lady’s age was a secret, Sir Gordon,” said Millicent smiling.
“To weak, vain women, yes, my child; but your mind is too clear and candid for such subterfuges as that. Twenty-three! Compared with that, I am quite an old man.”