Rowton held out his hand; he clasped Nancy’s with a pressure which almost made her cry out; she bit her lips and walked by his side in silence. The drawing-room was the picture of comfort; Rowton sank down into a deep easy chair, and pulling Nancy towards him, seated her on his knee.
“Now, my wild bird,” he said, “the curtain begins to lift; what do you think of your Adonis? do I begin to show the cloven hoof?”
“No, no, no,” she said, a strangled sob in her throat, “but you frightened me; why did you roar like that at the child?”
“He angered me, the little spitfire,” said the man; “he has got a spirit that nothing will break.”
“But he is you, Adrian, he is you—young. He is what you were as a child.”
“Faith! I believe you are right, Nance.”
“I wish you had not shouted at him,” she continued. “I hated to see him, and yet I loved to see him standing up so bravely under your anger.”
“I told you I was a lion,” said Rowton. “You have heard my first thunder. Heaven grant that I may never thunder at you, darling. For the rest, by those who know me well, by those who know me best of all, I am more feared than loved.”
“No, no,” she said, “I cannot believe it. That little chap loves you.”
“But he said he hated me.”