The contretemps had been disagreeable—a thing to be regretted. Yet, thinking over it, he was not wretched; scarce unhappy. How could he be, with those tender speeches still echoing in his ears—that piece of paper in his possession, which once again he had taken out, and read under the light of his own lamp?
It was painful to think “papa would never sanction her seeing him again.” But this did not hinder him from having a hope.
It was no more the mediaeval time; nor is England the country of cloisters, where love, conscious of being returned, lays much stress on the parental sanction. Still might such authority be an obstruction, not to be thought lightly of; nor did Maynard so think of it.
Between the proud baronet and himself, he had placed a barrier he might never be able to remove—a social gulf that would separate them for ever!
Were there no means of bridging it? Could none be devised?
For long hours these questions kept him awake; and he went to sleep without finding answer to them.
During the same hours was she, too, lying awake—thinking in the same way.
She had other thoughts, and among them fears. She had yet to face her father!
Returning, as she had done to her own room, she had not seen him since the hour of her shame.
But there was a morrow when she would have to meet him—perhaps be called upon for a full confession.