“Explain!” exclaimed Mr. Wilton, his visage contracting, and wearing that hard expression which so chilled Flora’s warm affection for him.
“You remember the old house in Clerkenwell, where we lived in a very different state of things to this,” said Mark, and paused as he pointed around him.
“Go on,” responded his father, coldly.
“In that house”—he cleared his throat and raised his voice—“I say in that house, from whose burning ruins young Vivian saved my sister, your only daughter—-saved, too, the document by which alone you were enabled to enter on the possession of this property and leap from destitution into prosperity—correct me if I mistake aught.” He paused again.
Mr. Wilton maintained a grim silence.
Mark proceeded—
“In that house there dwelt a young girl, a tenant of yours—saved also by Hal from the flames—you remember her, father, do you not?”
Mr. Wilton bowed stiffly.
“Ah! how would it be possible to forget her charming face, having once seen it?” cried Mark, ardently.
“Proceed!” said Mr. Wilton, in a grating voice, with difficulty enunciating the word.