The girl looked frankly at him—a little perplexed wrinkle on her smooth brow. She was puzzled.
“You say that because you do not understand him. He wouldn’t mind in the least your talking with me about the strike, because I am entirely in his confidence; but he might not like it if he knew you had been to see Mr. Hope.”
“Exactly. Now don’t you see that if you tell him you have been talking with me, you will have to tell him what was said? He will learn indirectly that I have been to Surbiton, and will undoubtedly be angry, the more so when he hears I did not intend to tell him. In fact, now that this conversation has taken place, I shall go straight to him and tell him I have talked with Mr. Hope, although I feel sure my doing so will nullify all my plans.”
“And this simply because I talked with you for a few minutes?”
“Yes.”
The girl bent her perplexed face upon the ground, absent-mindedly disturbing the gravel on the walk with the tiny toe of her very neat boot. The young man devoured her with his eyes, and yearned towards her in his heart. At last she looked suddenly up at him with a wavering smile.
“I am sorry I stopped you,” she said. “Perhaps you don’t know what it is to think more of one person than all the rest of the world together. My father is everything to me, and when I saw you I was afraid something had happened to him. It doesn’t seem right that I should keep anything from him, and it doesn’t seem right that I should put anything in the way of a quick settlement. I don’t know what to do.”
When did a woman ever waver without the man in the case taking instant advantage of her indecision, turning her own weapons against her?
“Don’t you see,” said Marsten, eagerly, “that Mr. Sartwell has already as much on his mind as a man should bear? Why, then, add to his anxiety by telling him that I have been here or at Surbiton? The explanations which seem satisfactory to you might not be satisfactory to him. He would then merely worry himself quite unnecessarily.”
“Do you think he would?”