"My dearest girl, there is something amiss," Thornton said, after he had watched her for some time, while they sat opposite to each other with the tea-tray between them. "My Tonia is no longer the happy girl I have known so long. What ails my love? I have been with your friend Kilrush. He leaves England to-morrow. Is it the loss of his company distresses you?"
"No, no! It is best that he should come here no more."
"Why, dearest?"
"Because we could never more be friends. I was very happy in his friendship. I knew not how happy till we parted."
"Why should such a friendship end? Why did you part?"
She burst into tears.
"I cannot—cannot—cannot tell you."
"Nay, love, you should have no secrets from your father—an indulgent father, if sometimes a neglectful one. When have I ever scared you by a harsh word?"
"No, no; but it is very hard to tell you that the man I esteemed was unworthy of my friendship—that he came here with the vilest design—that he waited till he had won my regard—and then—and then—swore that he loved me passionately, devotedly—and offered to make me—his mistress."
Thornton heard her with a countenance that indicated more of thought than of horror.