He sat like a silent fool—like an imbecile, he said to himself, glowering malignantly. He was madly in love, and he was furiously jealous. What business had this ginger-whiskered young lordling interloping here? And how disgustingly self-assured and at home he was! He tried to talk to the captain, but it was a miserable failure.
It was a relief when a servant entered with the mailbag.
"The mail reaches us late," Captain Hunsden said, as he opened it. "I like my letters with my breakfast."
"Any for me, papa?" Harriet asked.
"One—from your governess in Paris, I think—and half a dozen for me."
He glanced carelessly at the superscriptions as he laid them down. But as he took the last he uttered a low cry; his face turned livid: he stared at it as if it had turned into a death's-head in his hand.
"Oh, papa—"
She stopped in a sort of breathless affright.
Captain Hunsden rose up. He made no apology. He walked to a window and tore open his letter with passionate haste.
His daughter still stood—pale, breathless.