Colonel Halkett indulged in a turn or two up and down the room. He threw open a window, sniffed the moist air, and went to his daughter to speak to her resolutely.
'Between a Radical and a Tory, I don't know where your head has been whirled to, my dear. Your heart seems to be gone: more sorrow for us! And for Nevil Beauchamp to be pretending to love you while carrying on with this Frenchwoman!'
'He has never said that he loved me.'
The splendour of her beauty in humility flashed on her father, and he cried out: 'You are too good for any man on earth! We won't talk in the dark, my darling. You tell me he has never, as they say, made love to you?'
'Never, papa.'
'Well, that proves the French story. At any rate, he 's a man of honour.
But you love him?'
'The French story is untrue, papa.'
Cecilia stood in a blush like the burning cloud of the sunset.'
'Tell me frankly: I'm your father, your old dada, your friend, my dear girl! do you think the man cares for you, loves you?'
She replied: 'I know, papa, the French story is untrue.'