“Kendall?”
“Cecil Kendall—you have met him here once, I believe. He is an exemplary young man. In all ways worthy of my Dora.”
For the first time the features of Moses Flood appeared to get the better of his iron will. His hand stole over his heart, his lips contracted and twitched convulsively for a moment, and his voice choked in his throat.
“Does she, your daughter, love Cecil Kendall?” he asked.
“Devotedly.”
“Are you—are you—sure of that?”
“Positively, sir. It would break Medora’s heart if any ill befell Mr. Kendall, or if——”
“Please, sir,” interposed Flood, with cheeks utterly void of color. “You mean well, sir, and have not spoken unkindly. I shall not forget it, nor that you are the father of one more dear to me than life. I bid you adieu.”
He bowed, put on his hat, then passed out of the conservatory by the door they had entered, and strode across the broad grounds and into the quiet and secluded street.
The rector tottered toward a door leading into the side of the house.