“Well, Father!”
Soames shook his head. His tongue failed him. This was murderous work! He saw her eyes dilate, her lips quivering.
“What? What? Quick, Father!”
“My dear,” said Soames, “I—I did my best, but—” And again he shook his head.
Fleur ran to him, and put a hand on each of his shoulders.
“She?”
“No,” muttered Soames; “he. I was to tell you that it was no use; he must do what his father wished before he died.” He caught her by the waist. “Come, child, don't let them hurt you. They're not worth your little finger.”
Fleur tore herself from his grasp.
“You didn't you—couldn't have tried. You—you betrayed me, Father!”
Bitterly wounded, Soames gazed at her passionate figure writhing there in front of him.