“I can’t,” muttered Crawford.
“Well—try, anyway,” said Garcide, more amiably.
And now this was the result of that explanation, at least one of the results; and Miss Castle had promised to wed a gentleman in Ophir Steel named Crawford, at the convenience of the Hon. John Garcide.
The early morning sunshine fell across the rugs in the music-room, filling the gloom with golden lights. It touched a strand of hair on Miss Castle’s bent head.
“You’ll like him,” said Garcide, guiltily.
Her hand hung heavily on the piano keys.
“You have no other man in mind?” he asked.
“No, … no man.”
Garcide chewed the end of his cigar.
“Crawford’s a bashful man. Don’t make it hard for him,” he said.