Turning into a fresh glade, where the branches overarched above her, she came unexpectedly face to face with her father. The flush died from her cheeks, the light from her eyes. She bowed coldly and would have passed on, when he barred her progress with his arm.
“Wait!” he said. “I have something to ask you. What is this about a proposal of marriage made to you this morning by a Mr. Hilary Pritchard?”
She looked at him scornfully. She knew quite well that he was trying to deceive her.
“You have been misinformed,” she said. “The gentleman who asked me to marry him was Viscount Carthew.”
“And what was your answer?”
“I have not yet given it. But it will most certainly be ‘No!’ ”
CHAPTER VIII.
AN OLD FRIEND.
Father and daughter faced each other under the delicate spring foliage, both pale, set, and determined.
Sir Philip spoke first.
“If Lord Carthew has done you the honor to ask you to marry him,” he said, “you will most certainly accept him.”