“I suppose you have heard of my affliction, Miss Rook?” said Brandon, after salutations had been exchanged.
“My father has been just telling me of it.”
“Ah! yes; my old dad’s dead and gone; buried him day before yesterday. Can’t be helped, you know. It’s the way of us all. We’ve all got to die.”
To this lugubrious declaration Lena Rook yielded ready assent.
There was a pause in the conversation. Notwithstanding his plentitude of power, tending to inspire him with sufficient assurance, the suitor felt ill at ease. It was not to be wondered at, considering the errand on which he had come.
Moreover, the pleasant look had forsaken Lena’s face, and he had begun to doubt of success.
She knew what he had come for, and was seriously reflecting upon the answer she should give him.
She, of course, intended it to be negative; but she remembered her father’s words, and was thinking in what way she might reject the disagreeable suitor, without stirring up his spite. She so well understood his nature as to know he would be contemptible enough to use it.
It was no thought of herself that dictated the affability with which she was entertaining him; though she could scarce conceal her disgust for the man before her, talking in such strains of a father so recently deceased.
She, too, had a father, who was not what he ought to be; and she knew it. But still he was her father.