Thorpe shifted his position uneasily. The hardest part was to come.
“Nina has intimated to me,” he said, haltingly, “that there is a—some mysterious reason which would prevent her marrying. I have utterly disregarded that reason, and shall continue to do so. I purpose to marry her, and I hope you will—will you?—help me.”
Mr. Randolph leaned forward and twisted his nervous pale hands together. It was at least three minutes before he spoke, and by that time Thorpe’s ear-drums were pounding.
“I must leave it to her,” he said, “utterly to her. That is a question which only she can decide—and you. Of course she will tell you—she is too honest not to; but I am afraid she will stave it off as long as possible. I cannot tell you; it would not be just to her.”
“But you will do nothing to dissuade her?”
“No; she is old enough to judge for herself. And if she decides in your favour, and you—are still of the same mind, I do not deny that I shall be very glad. I should even be willing for you to take her to England, to resign myself never to see her again—if I could think—if you thought it was for the best.”
“I wish I knew what this cursed secret was,” said Thorpe, passionately. “I am half distracted with it.”
“Have you no suspicion?”
“It seems to me that I have thought of everything under heaven; and she denied one question after the other. I am bound to take her word, and to believe that the truth was the one thing I did not hit upon.”