“And how long have you taken upon yourself to defend my daughter, Mrs. Trafford?” asked his uncle coldly. Erle almost repented of his generous impulse when he heard that hard relentless voice. They had not noticed their visitor, and Raby, at the other end of the great room, lost much of what was passing, he was so absorbed with his own bitter disappointment. As Erle was silent a moment, Mr. Huntingdon repeated his question.
“Since he knew I had a pretty sister,” replied Percy, carelessly.
Erle turned round and their eyes met, but Percy’s fell before that glance of utter contempt; Mr. Huntingdon intercepted the look between the young men.
“I was not speaking to you, Percy,” he observed, curtly; “I should have thought it was your place to take your mother’s part, but you chose to be silent. Well, it is no affair of mine. Erle, will you be good enough to answer me a question or two, and then I will trouble you to send the child home. How often have you visited at my daughter’s house?”
“I can hardly answer that question, sir; I have been several times.”
“Did Percy take you?”
“In the first instance, yes; but I have been there alone too,” for Erle’s truthful nature scorned subterfuge. The crisis he had dreaded had come on him at last; but Percy should not see that he was afraid. He might be weak and vacillating, but he was a gentleman, and a lie was abhorrent to him. Percy’s innuendo might work deadly mischief, but all the same he would not shelter himself behind a falsehood.
Mr. Huntingdon’s hard look involuntarily softened. This show of manliness on his nephew’s part pleased him.
“Of course you went there, knowing that I should disapprove of such visits. Tell me, is this Fern of whom my grandson speaks so very attractive?”
“She is very pretty.”