The day following was memorable for two interviews. The first, in the forenoon, was with poppa. He had no doubt found my address from the coachman, and had come to have it out with me. In his most puritanical manner he wanted to know why I gave the girl the money.
“I refuse to explain,” I said sourly.
“Then, sir, I must refuse to consider you worthy of my daughter’s hand.”
My heart leapt. Escape from Guinivere! It seemed too good to be true. Lucrezia, I thank thee! Nor do I grudge thee twice the gold thy purse contains. Concealing my joy I answered:
“It shall be as you please, sir.”
His church-deacon face relaxed a little. He had evidently expected more trouble.
“And I must ask you, sir, not to communicate with her in any way.”
I summoned a look of sadness worthy of a lover whose heart is broken.
“As her father,” I observed submissively, “your wishes must be respected.”
He laid a small box on the table. “Guinivere returns you your ring.” Then he hesitated a little. “Have you nothing at all to say for yourself? I too have been young; I can make some allowance, but there are limits. I don’t like to think that you are an absolute scoundrel.”