“We are such good friends,” he continued in his gentle, reserved voice, “that I hesitate to break into such pleasant relations, even with the chance of making us all happier, perhaps. But I cannot resist the temptation. Could we not make one family, we three?”
A quick, warm color flooded her cheeks and forehead. She caught her breath; her startled eyes met his with a lightning-swift flash of something that moved him strangely.
“What do you mean, Colonel Driscoll?” she asked, low and quickly.
“I mean, could you give me your daughter—if she—at any time—could think it possible?”
She drew a deep breath; the color seemed blown from her transparent skin like a flame from a lamp. For a moment her head seemed to droop; then she sat straight and moistened her lips, her eyes fixed level ahead.
“Lady?” she whispered, and he was sure that she thought the word was spoken in her ordinary tone. “Lady?”
“I know—I realize perfectly that it is a presumption in me—at my age—when I think of what she deserves. Oh, we won't speak of it again if you feel that it would be wrong!”
“No, no, it is not that,” she murmured. “I—I have always known that I must lose her; but she—one is so selfish—she is all I have, you know!”
“But you would not lose her!” he cried eagerly. “You would only share her with me, dear Mrs. Leroy! Do you think—could she—it is possible?”
“Lady is an unusual girl,” she said evenly, but with something gone out of her warm, gay voice. “She has never cared for young people. I know that she admires you greatly. While I cannot deny that I should prefer less difference than lies between your ages, it would be folly in me to fail to recognize the desirability of the connection in every other way. Whatever her decision—and the matter rests entirely with her—my daughter and I are honored by your proposal, Colonel Driscoll.”