“I was not annoyed,” Sofia found heart to contend. “I—like him.”
“Nonsense!” Victor’s laugh was rich with derision. “Don’t ask me to believe you were actually touched by the fellow’s play-acting. You—my daughter—wasting emotion on a mere commoner! The thing is too ridiculous. Oblige me by thinking no more about it. I have better things in store for you.”
“Better than—love?” the girl questioned with grave eyes.
“When the time comes for that, you shall find a worthier parti than poor Karslake, well-meaning though he may be. Moreover, you heard—forgive me for reminding you—there was not an ounce of sincerity in all his philandering for you to hold in sentimental recollection. So—forget Karslake, please. It is a duty you owe your own pride and my dignity; it is, furthermore, my wish.”
She bowed her head, that he might not see the reflection in her face of the glow that warmed her bosom, where Karslake’s letter nestled. But Victor took the nod for the word of submission, and patted her shoulder with an indulgent hand, guiding her to a chair close by his.
“Sit down, my dear. I want to explain why I asked you to come to me at this late hour—never dreaming my message would find you so overwrought.... You quite see how needless it was to permit yourself to be upset by such a trifling matter, don’t you?”
“Oh, quite,” Sofia murmured, with gaze fixed on the interlacing fingers in her lap.
“That is sensible.” Offering her shoulder one last accolade of approbation, Victor moved toward his own chair. “And now that you are here, we may as well have our little talk out,” he continued, but broke off to stipulate: “If, that is, you are sure you feel up to it?”
“Yes,” Sofia assented, but without moving.
“I am not so sure. Perhaps a glass of wine might do you good.”