Through the long window a little river of light shone out on the veranda tiles, and, flowing past, cut the garden in two.
There was the sound of hurried footsteps, a rustling of draperies; Christian, running through the window, stood before him.
Mr. Treffry dropped his paper, such a fury of passion and alarm shone in the girl's eyes.
“Chris! What is it?”
“Hateful!”
“Chris!”
“Oh! Uncle! He's insulted, threatened! And I love his little finger more than all the world!”
Her passionate voice trembled, her eyes were shining.
Mr. Treffry's profound discomfort found vent in the gruff words: “Sit down!”
“I'll never speak to Father again! Oh! Uncle! I love him!”