“No; you must stay until you are happy,” said Perdita, firmly, laying her hand on the youth’s arm as he was about to rise. At her touch he subsided, helpless.
“There’s something you’ll enjoy better than being my husband,” continued the Marquise, looking at him kindly, “and you’ll have no rivals! I need a brother, Tom, much more, perhaps, than a husband. I want a friend; no woman can be my friend, and no man, unless you will. Don’t you think it might be pleasant to be my friend? Would you rather be that or—nothing?”
“I don’t know what I want if I can’t have you. I’m awfully miserable. Look here—don’t marry any other fellow! I could stand anything but that! Well, I’ll see if I can be your friend. Better break my heart with you than away from you, I suppose. Only I won’t have you call me your brother—that would be too desperate! Look here, do you know who your father is?”
“I know who he was.”
“Well, he is still. He’s back here. Don’t you know? You talked with him long enough the other day. Didn’t he tell you?”
Perdita lifted her head high and looked at him intently. “Who do you mean?” she demanded.
“Why, old Grant, to be sure! Grantley is his real name, and he is your father.”
Perdita looked aside, with a thoughtful expression, and said, “He didn’t tell me.”
“Well, he is.”
“Who told you so?”