“No, no,” he said, quickly. “I am nearly sick with all this worry and fuss, and I cannot spare you.”
He did indeed look worried over something, and his face was pale, his eyes very bright and restless; but Editha could not think it necessary that she should be hurried off in such an unheard-of manner, just for a matter of business.
“If you must go, and think you cannot get along without me, suppose you go on an early train, and I will follow with Annie later?” she said. “A few hours cannot make much difference to you, and I really think it would be uncivil to hurry away so, and without even a word of farewell to our friends. Besides, I promised I would see Madam Sylvester in the morning.”
“I should think you were fairly bewitched with this French madam. I will not have it. You must return with me; and, if report speaks the truth, your wonderful friend is no fit companion for my daughter,” Mr. Dalton cried, with angry hauteur.
“Then you knew her before to-night. I thought so from your manner. What do you know about her?” Editha asked, greatly surprised.
“I cannot say that I had that honor,” her father returned, sarcastically. “I never spoke with her until to-night, and I cannot say that I wish to extend the acquaintance.”
“She is a very lovely, as well as a good, pure woman,” Editha asserted, with flushing cheeks, and indignant with him for speaking so slightingly of her new friend. “Mr. Tressalia,” she added, “knows all about her, and he says that, excepting for a mistake or two during the early part of her life, her character is above suspicion.”
“A mistake or two in one’s early life, as you express it, often ruins one for all time,” remarked Mr. Dalton, dryly.
Having proved the truth of that axiom to a certain extent, he knew whereof he spoke.
“Then you would not be willing for me to remain with her under any circumstances?” Editha asked, with a searching look into his face.