There was an irksome interlude before Sir George again opened his lips. It seemed equally so to him. He was struggling with painful thoughts.
“My daughter,” said he, making an effort to still his emotion, “I need not tell you for what reason I’ve sent for you?”
He paused, though not for a reply. He did not expect one. It was only to gain time for considering his next speech.
The child sate silent, her body bent, her arms crossed over her knees, her head drooping low between them.
“I need not tell you, either,” continued Sir George, “that I overheard what passed between you and—”
Another pause, as if he hated to pronounce the name.
“This stranger, who has entered my house like a thief and a villain.”
In the drooping form before him there was just perceptible the slightest start, followed by a tinge of red upon her cheek, and a shivering throughout her frame.
She said nothing, though it was plain the speech had given pain to her.
“I know not what words may have been exchanged between you before. Enough what I heard last night—enough to have broken my heart.”