Her father was waiting for her in the study. He took her on his knee, and stroked her hair for a little while before speaking. Then he said tenderly; “I have not been a very good Daddy to you these last few months, little maid, and I am sorry, and I want to explain.”
Philomène opened her eyes wide. “You know, little Miss Muffet,” continued her father gently, “if one cares very, very much, ever so much, for someone, and doesn’t know if that someone cares back, it makes one very unhappy.”
“But why don’t you ask and find out, right away?” said Philomène.
“I have asked, and I have found out, but it took me a long time to make up my mind, and meanwhile I was so much worried that I’m afraid I was often cross to my little girl. Has she forgiven me, I wonder?”
Philomène hid her face. “Oh, Daddy,” she whispered, “don’t talk so; it doesn’t sound quite proper, somehow, for you to put it that way round.”
The doctor laughed. “My dear,” he said, “if it sometimes occurred to parents that their children might possibly have something to forgive in them, they would have a good deal less to forgive in their children.”
He gave her a fond kiss, and she flung her arms round him, declaring that he was the best Daddy in the world, and got down from his knee. Not long afterwards he was standing in Isolde’s boudoir, holding both her hands in his.
“I have loved you,” she was saying slowly, “ever since I first met you.”
“And did Rachel know?”
“No, it was the only secret I had from her.”