I said I should be glad of her help. So, when the old gentleman was shown into the study, he found her there with me. The doctor was very grave and his usually ruddy, pleasant face was haggard and careworn. He took the chair which I offered him and, without preliminaries, began to speak of the subject which had brought him there.
It was as Hephzy had surmised. His son had told him everything, of his love for Frances, of his asking my permission to marry her, and of our talk before the inn.
“I am sure I don't need to tell you, Knowles,” he said, “that all this has shaken the boy's mother and me dreadfully. We knew, of course, that the young people liked each other, were together a great deal, and all that. But we had not dreamed of any serious attachment between them.”
Hephzy put in a word.
“We don't know as there has been any attachment between them,” she said. “Your boy cared for her—we know that—but whether she cared for him or not we don't know.”
Our visitor straightened in his chair. The idea that his son could love anyone and not be loved in return was plainly quite inconceivable.
“I think we may take that for granted, madame,” he said. “The news was, as I say, a great shock to my wife and myself. Herbert is our only child and we had, naturally, planned somewhat concerning his future. The—the overthrow of our plans was and is a great grief and disappointment to us. Not, please understand, that we question your niece's worth or anything of that sort. She is a very attractive young woman and would doubtless make my son a good wife. But, if you will pardon my saying so, we know very little about her or her family. You are comparative strangers to us and although we have enjoyed your—ah—society and—ah—”
Hephzy interrupted.
“I beg your pardon for saying it, Doctor Bayliss,” she said, “but you know as much about us as we do about you.”
The doctor's composure was ruffled still more. He regarded Hephzy through his spectacles and then said, with dignity.