“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.
“You didn't try—you didn't—I was a fool! I won't believe he could—he ever could! Only yesterday he—! Oh! why did I ask you?”
“Yes,” said Soames, quietly, “why did you? I swallowed my feelings; I did my best for you, against my judgment—and this is my reward. Good-night!”