“Then you can’t expect me to throw a light upon the subject.”
“You have an advantage over the London detective. You know the neighbourhood—and you know what kind of man Sir Godfrey was.”
“Yes, I know that. How handsome he was, how frank and pleasant looking, and how your daughter adored him. They were a beautiful couple.”
Her wan cheeks flushed, and her eyes kindled as she spoke, as if with a genuine enthusiasm.
“They were, and they adored each other. It will break my daughter’s heart. You have known trouble—about a daughter. I think you can understand what I feel for my girl.”
“I do—I do! Yes, I know what you must feel—what she must feel in her desolation, with all she valued gone from her for ever. But she has not to drink the cup that my girl must drink, Lord Cheriton. She has not fallen. She is not a thing for men to trample under foot, and women to shrink away from.”
“Forgive me,” said Lord Cheriton, in a softened voice. “I ought not to have spoken of—Mercy.”
“You ought never to speak of her—to me. I suppose you thought the wound was so old that it might be touched with impunity, but you were wrong. That wound will never heal.”
“I am sure you know that I have always been deeply sorry for you—for that great affliction,” said Lord Cheriton gently.
“Sorry, yes, I suppose you were sorry. You would have been sorry if a footman had knocked down one of your Sèvres vases and smashed it. One is sorry for anything that can’t be replaced.”