She did not answer. She seated herself in the chair and fixed her dark eyes upon me. They were large eyes and very dark. Hephzy said, when she first saw them, that they looked like “burnt holes in a blanket.” Perhaps they did; that simile did not occur to me.
“You have read my letter?” she asked.
It was evident that I must have read the letter or I should not have learned where to find her, but I did not call attention to this. I said simply that I had read the letter.
“Then what do you propose?” she asked.
“Propose?”
“Yes,” impatiently. “What proposition do you make me? If you have read the letter you must know what I mean. You must have come here for the purpose of saying something, of making some offer. What is it?”
I was speechless. I had come there to find an impudent young blackguard and tell him what I thought of him. That was as near a definite reason for my coming as any. If I had not acted upon impulse, if I had stopped to consider, it is quite likely that I should not have come at all. But the blackguard was—was—well, he was not and never had been. In his place was this white-faced, frail girl. I couldn't tell her what I thought of her. I didn't know what to think.
She waited for me to answer and, as I continued to play the dumb idiot, her impatience grew. Her brows—very dark brown they were, almost black against the pallor of her face—drew together and her foot began to pat the faded carpet. “I am waiting,” she said.
I realized that I must say something, so I said the only thing which occurred to me. It was a question.
“Your father is dead?” I asked.