"John, dear?" she queried. Stuyvesant didn't answer for his voice was gone, but he stepped toward her. He put out a hand and laid it on a white wall. The world was reeling for him.
"Oh," she said, "I thought it was John, but—but you wanted to see me?"
He nodded.
"Marjory——" she began, then scolded herself for a too abrupt start. She drew a quick breath, and tried to control reason and tact. "She is so lovely, Mr. Stuyvesant," she went on, "but sometimes she doesn't let people know when she likes them. She's like that."
Cecilia stopped and gasped. It was harder than she had dreamed.
"Has she been a good friend to you?" asked Stuyvesant in a queer, tight voice.
"Oh, yes!" answered Cecilia, "so good! I do love her so much! I would do anything to make her happy!"
"You darling!" said K. Stuyvesant. He spoke loudly, but his words shook, for his heart was pounding with a sickening speed. With his words Cecilia caught her breath so deeply that it seemed a sob. Doubts vanished,—seemed incredible,—but she spoke what would always be her truth, though her heart famished from it. She looked Stuyvesant squarely in the eyes: "I love my father," she said, "and I am proud of him. I am proud to be his daughter."
"Of course you are," he answered. "You should be. Cecilia, I am very little, but I am large enough to see what you love in him. Have you misunderstood what I thought?"
She nodded. White, she was, and her eyes were on his face, imploring in their new hope.