“She—she—oh, you know it already,” said the old gentleman with difficulty, “formed an attachment with a young sculptor when we were last abroad. I introduced them myself. He’s General May’s nephew, working in Rome; got a high degree of talent, and all that. But, oh, Phronsie!”
Mr. Marlowe’s imperturbable countenance gave no hint to any onlooker that anything but the most ordinary conversation was in progress; the other two sitting with their faces to the wall.
“And now that precious child is really and absolutely in love with that man,” said Mr. King in a subdued but dreadful voice. “I didn’t believe it until I saw her face the other night when little Grace said he was her cousin. Marlowe, what can I do?” He grasped the strong right hand lying on the table.
“Mr. King,” said the publisher, with a lightning-like gleam in the gray eyes, “I can only tell you certain ways of looking at the matter that seem right to me. You may not like what I say.”
“You will say it all the same,” said the old gentleman grimly.
“I shall say it all the same,” said Mr. Marlowe.
“That’s what I like you for,” broke in Mr. King. “Why, if I hadn’t wanted the truth, I wouldn’t have come to you, man.” He leaned forward, and gazed into the clear gray eyes.
“You approve of Roslyn May as a man?” asked Mr. Marlowe.
“Dear me, yes. Why, if I hadn’t, do you suppose I would have introduced him to Phronsie,” cried the old gentleman, somewhat irately.
“Certainly not. Now, what is there that you disapprove of in him?” asked the publisher.