“Will you, at all events, give me your reasons?” he asked. “I am not a child.”
Sir John fumbled at his lips—he glanced sharply at his son.
“I think,” he said, “that it would be advisable not to ask them.”
“I should like to know why you object to my marrying Millicent,” persisted Jack.
“Simply because I know a bad woman when I see her,” retorted Sir John deliberately.
Jack raised his eyebrows. He glanced towards the door, as if contemplating leaving the room without further ado. But he sat quite still. It was wonderful how little it hurt him. It was more—it was significant. Sir John, who was watching, saw the glance and guessed the meaning of it. An iron self-control had been the first thing he had taught Jack—years before, when he was in his first knickerbockers. The lesson had not been forgotten.
“I am sorry you have said that,” said the son.
“Just,” continued the father, “as I know a good one.”
He paused, and they were both thinking of the same woman—Jocelyn Gordon.
Sir John had said his say about Millicent Chyne; and his son knew that that was the last word. She was a bad woman. From that point he would never move.