A little triumphant thought thrilled her through and through:
“What do I care for his coming or going now? I shall soon be happy with my darling!”
She was wondrously beautiful this morning, even in the plain dark gown that simply served as a foil to her fairness. Everard Dawn could not help from seeing it, and saying to himself:
“What peerless beauty! No wonder Arthur Varian lost his head!”
He felt like groaning aloud, his sudden home-coming had precipitated him into such a tragic plight, for the task that lay before him was most bitter.
He could not help from seeing the pride and resentment in her eyes, and something moved him to say, apologetically:
“I dare say you have been vexed with me for staying away so long, Cinthia; but I have been working for you, trying to lay aside a little pile, so that you could enjoy your young ladyhood. You shall have pretty gowns and pleasures henceforth. Are you not glad?”
It cost him effort to say so much, but there was no gratitude in his daughter’s proud face, only a mutinous flash of the great dark eyes as she answered:
“I shall not need your belated kindness now.”
“What do you mean?” impatiently.