Winton's face expressed nothing but cold contempt. That this fellow should take him for one who would consider money in connection with his daughter simply affronted him.
Fiorsen went on:
“You do not like me—that is clear. I saw it the first moment. You are an English gentleman”—he pronounced the words with a sort of irony—“I am nothing to you. Yet, in MY world, I am something. I am not an adventurer. Will you permit me to beg your daughter to be my wife?” He raised his hands that still held the hat; involuntarily they had assumed the attitude of prayer.
For a second, Winton realized that he was suffering. That weakness went in a flash, and he said frigidly:
“I am obliged to you, sir, for coming to me first. You are in my house, and I don't want to be discourteous, but I should be glad if you would be good enough to withdraw and take it that I shall certainly oppose your wish as best I can.”
The almost childish disappointment and trouble in Fiorsen's face changed quickly to an expression fierce, furtive, mocking; and then shifted to despair.
“Major Winton, you have loved; you must have loved her mother. I suffer!”
Winton, who had turned abruptly to the fire, faced round again.
“I don't control my daughter's affections, sir; she will do as she wishes. I merely say it will be against my hopes and judgment if she marries you. I imagine you've not altogether waited for my leave. I was not blind to the way you hung about her at Wiesbaden, Mr. Fiorsen.”
Fiorsen answered with a twisted, miserable smile: