"What's the matter, my dear?" he said.
"Oh, nothing—nothing, dear Mr. Oakley, nothing."
"Well, I'm glad to hear it. Perhaps I only fancy it; but you both seem—seem—"
"What do we seem, father?" said Johanna, looking very pale, and speaking with a great effort.
"Not quite as usual, my darling."
"That—that," gasped Johanna, "can only be—be fancy."
"Of course not," said Oakley. "Fancy, I think I said it was, or if I did not, I meant to say so, my love."
"Come," said Arabella.
"Yes—yes. Father—father. Good day."
She kissed his cheek; and then, before the old man could say another word, she rushed to the door.