The door closed, and Sir Mark turned upon Stratton fiercely.
“Why, confound you, sir!” he began; but the despairing face before him was disarming. “No, no,” he cried, calming down; “no use to get in a passion about it. Poor lad! poor lad!” he muttered. Then aloud: “You were speaking, then, of Myra—my daughter—all the time?”
“Yes.” Only that word in a despondent tone, for he could read rejection in every line of the old sailor’s face.
“But I always thought—oh, what a confounded angle. This is not men’s work. Why isn’t Rebecca here? Mr Stratton, this is all a horrible blunder. Surely Myra—my daughter—never encouraged you to hope?”
“Never, sir; but I did hope and believe. Let me see her, Sir Mark. I thought I was explicit, but we have been playing at cross purposes. Yes; ask Miss Jerrold to see me here—in your presence. Surely it is not too late to remedy such a terrible mistake.”
“But it is too late, Mr Stratton; and really I don’t think I could ever have agreed to such an engagement, even if my child had been willing.”
“Sir Mark!” pleaded Stratton.
“For Heaven’s sake, let’s bring it to an end, sir. I never imagined such a thing. Why, man, then all the time you were making friends with one cousin, so as to get her on your side.”
“I don’t know—was I?” said Stratton dejectedly.
“Of course, sir. Acting the timid lover with the old result!” cried Sir Mark angrily.