"You know I did n't come to see you, don't you?" she demanded with quiet defiance.
"Far be it from me," he temporised, "to assume accurate knowledge of anything as doubtful as the direction a charming young woman's favour may take; but I thought it possible—I thought it possible—for old sake's sake."
The repetition of the reminder touched her, in spite of her preoccupation, and she glanced about the once familiar room with a wistful kindling of the eyes.
"I used to come up here often, did n't I?" she mused. "And father knew where to find me when he had finished his smoke and talk with the boys. There 's the same old picture of the Alhambra you used to tell me stories about." Her defiance was gone now, though her purpose still held. "But I did n't come to see you this time; I shall—soon. I came to see some one else."
"My dear child," he said, fixing her with a gaze of deep concern, "I am old enough to be your father, am I not?"
She nodded silently, waiting for the lecture she felt she so well deserved. Yet it was characteristic of their relationship that she experienced no serious apprehension; she was too well aware of his understanding and indulgence for that.
"But still," he continued, "I lack a few years of reaching the imposing longevity of Methuselah."
She put out her hands in impulsive protest against this reference to their difference in age, understanding the pain that underlay his effort at jocularity. He took and retained them in his own, and his colour deepened.
"This is a most embarrassing demonstration of affection," he commented. "If any one should suddenly open the door, I fear his surprise would be very great. Now, is it not fortunate that my room is opposite that of my young colleague, rather than the room of some other person less well disposed, less a friend, I may say, to you both?"
"I 'm sure it is," she answered. "If any one else had been living in this room, I would never have ventured"—