"Yes. I—"
"That will be no obstacle."
"What! How in thunder d'you know it won't?" Amber expostulated. A faint suspicion of the truth quickened his wits. "Who is this woman you want me to marry?"
"My daughter."
"Your daughter!"
"My only child, David."
"Then why won't my—my love for Sophia Farrell interfere?"
"Because," said Rutton slowly, "my daughter and Sophia Farrell are the same…. No; listen to me; I'm not raving. Here is my proof—her latest photograph." He put it into Amber's hands.
Dazed, the younger man stared blankly at the likeness of the woman he loved; it was unquestionably she. Fair, sweet, and imperious, her face looked up to his from the bit of cardboard in his hands; the direct and fearless eyes met his—eyes frank, virginal, and serene, beautiful with the beauty of a soul as unsullied and untroubled as the soul of a child.
He gasped, trembling, astounded. "Sophia…!" he said thickly, colouring hotly. He was conscious of a tightening of his throat muscles, making speech a matter of difficulty. "But—but—" he stammered.