No, he had not. Of course he wouldn't do that until he and I had had our understanding. He had tried to be honorable and all that. But—but he thought she did not object to him. She—well, she had seemed to like him well enough. There had been times when he thought she—she—
“Well, you see, sir,” he said, “she's a girl, of course, and a fellow never knows just what a girl is going to say or do. There are times when one is sure everything is quite right and then that it is all wrong. But I have hoped—I believe—She's such a ripping girl, you know. She would not flirt with a chap and—I don't mean flirt exactly, she isn't a flirt, of course—but—don't you think she likes me, now?”
“I have no reason to suppose she doesn't,” I answered grudgingly. After all, he was acting very honorably; I could scarcely do less.
He seemed to find much comfort in my equivocal reply.
“Thanks, thanks awfully,” he exclaimed. “I—I—by Jove, you know, I can't tell you how I like to hear you say that! I'm awfully grateful to you, Knowles, I am really. And you'll give me permission to speak to her?”
I smiled; it was not a happy smile, but there was a certain ironic humor in the situation. The idea of anyone's seeking my “permission” in any matter concerning Frances Morley. He noticed the smile and was, I think, inclined to be offended.
“Is it a joke?” he asked. “I say, now! it isn't a joke to me.”
“Nor to me, I assure you,” I answered, seriously. “If I gave that impression it was a mistaken one. I never felt less like joking.”
He put his own interpretation on the last sentence. “I'm sorry,” he said, quickly. “I beg your pardon. I understand, of course. You're very fond of her; no one could help being that, could they. And she is your niece.”
I hesitated. I was minded to blurt out the fact that she was not my niece at all; that I had no authority over her in any way. But what would be the use? It would lead only to explanations and I did not wish to make explanations. I wanted to get through with the whole inane business and be left alone.