Madame looked at him sharply. "And your hopes being dashed in that quarter, you come—"
"No, you are not fair!" protested Lord Otford. "I think I should have come in any case. Seeing you on Saturday has revived many memories—"
"It needed some such shock."
Lord Otford winced; but he continued bravely. "I made up my mind not to act my own father over again. If Jack loved your daughter, he was to marry her."
"That is no longer the question," said Madame with emphasis. "My daughter refuses to marry your son."
"Why? Because she does not love him?" His voice was very grave and very searching. Madame tried to answer. She would have given worlds to have been able to say "Yes." But she could not say it, and she was silent. Lord Otford was watching her keenly.
"No!" he said, almost severely. "No; but only because you tell her to refuse. She simply obeys out of habit. You are undertaking a heavy responsibility. Ah! Why punish these children because I behaved like a fool years ago, when I knew no better?"
Madame sank on the seat under the elm. Was he right? Had she acted in mere selfishness? Was she breaking Marjolaine's heart only to gratify something very like spite?
Lord Otford leant over her, and now there was a ring of passion in his voice. "And why punish me now, so late? Is it not possible for me to atone—Lucy?"
"Lord Otford!" she cried, trying to rise.