Cary rose from the big chair that Trevelyan's father had occupied, and came slowly forward.
"Here," she said, simply, her voice quiet as the deepening twilight that surrounded her, and she rubbed her cheek up and down against the Captain's.
The Captain lighted the red lamp, and turned to look at her, arrested by the vague trouble in the voice.
VII.
Trevelyan's father walked slowly down the stairs and out into the long twilight.
"For all the good I've done, for all I've saved her, or learned about her real feelings for the boy, I might have spared myself the call. Gad! but she has pride though, and damn me if I don't like it! The boy hasn't got half bad taste anyway. Heaven bless the boy—and spare the woman he marries!"
Then he pressed his lips together suddenly as though all had been said, and he planted his cane very firmly on the pavement with each step, swinging it very high when he raised it again. But he kept on thinking of Robert, and all the memories he had ever cherished of him, assailed him now, as though charging against the breastworks he had raised of duty. And every memory had those reproachful eyes. He, his father, had gone to plead with the woman he loved. What right had he to do this thing, questioned the eyes.
The old officer walked slower.
She had told him that she thanked him, but that his call had been unnecessary. How dared she tell him so; how dared she be indifferent to his son, or sit in judgment on him!
Yet, hadn't she a right?