“Try saying 'yes' and see how it seems. It will be a change, anyhow.”
“No, no! I cannot; it is impossible.”
“Oh, you make me weary! . . . Humph! What is it now? Any more 'reasons'?”
“Yes.” I faced him squarely. “Yes,” I said, “there is another reason, one that makes it impossible, utterly impossible, if nothing else did. When I tell you what it is you will understand what I mean and agree with me. Your daughter and I have been thrown together a great deal since she came to Denboro. Our meetings have not been of my seeking, nor of hers. Of late I have realized that, for my own sake, for the sake of my peace of mind, I must not meet her. I must not be where she is. I—”
“Here! Stop!” he broke in sharply. “What is this? Do you mean to tell me that you and Mabel—”
“It is not her fault. It is my own, entirely. Mr. Colton, I—”
“Stop, I tell you! Do you mean to tell me that you are—that you have been making love to my daughter?”
“No. Certainly not.”
“Then what do you mean? That she has been making love to you?”
“Mr. Colton—”