“No—of course not!”
“Sure?” she whispered.
“Oh!”—her father’s breath came quickly—“You mean that some day you might marry?”
“Well—you want me to marry—some day—don’t you, Daddy?”
“Why—why, yes. Yes, of course I do. It would be a wrench, a bad wrench, but—I should feel safer, if I knew there was some good man to take care of you.”
The girl came to him then, and he reached and took her hand and held it to his cheek.
“There is a good man who wants to—now.” She spoke very low—only just said it. But Richard Bransby heard every word; and every word cut him.
“Who is he?” There was fear in his voice and fear on his face. He dropped her hand.
“Can’t you guess?”
“Not—not Hugh?”