It was even so with Hawkes, as he looked at the little Irish girl, born of an aristocratic English mother, looking up at him, hand outstretched, expectant, in all her girlish pudicity.
Yielding to some uncontrollable impulse, he took the little hand in both of his own. He smiled nervously, and there was a suspicious tremor in his voice:
"You would like a man of position in life to give you what you most need. Of years to bring you dignity, and strength to protect you."
"I've got HIM," stated Peg unexpectedly, withdrawing her hand and eyeing the bank-notes that seemed as far from her as when she first asked for them.
"You've got him?" ejaculated the man-of-law, aghast.
"I have. Me father. Let ME count that money. The cab will be here an' I won't be ready—" Hawkes was not to be denied now. He went on in his softest and most persuasive accents:
"I know one who would give you all these—a man who has reached the years of discretion! one in whom the follies of youth have merged into the knowledge and reserve of early middle-age. A man of position and of means. A man who can protect you, care for you, admire you—and be proud to marry you."
He felt a real glow of eloquent pleasure, as he paused for her reply to so dignified and ardent an appeal.
If Peg had been listening, she certainly could not have understood the meaning of his fervid words, since she answered him by asking a question:
"Are ye goin' to let me have the money?"