"Well, my lad?" inquired the baronet, calmly.
"Good evening to you, Sir Ralph," replied Kingswell, hiding his chagrin and confusion with exceeding skill.
"You looked just now as if you were expecting me," said the elder. "Come in, come in. We can talk better by the fire."
Kingswell's blushes were safe in the dusk. He picked up his gloves from the trampled snow by the threshold, and silently followed the baronet into the fire-lit living-room. Beatrix was not there—which fact the lover noticed with a sinking of the heart. He was alone with her father, and evidently under marked suspicion,—a fearful matter to a young man who aspires to the hand of an angel, and has not yet his line of action quite laid down. He took a deep breath, trembled at thought of his presumption, called the respectability of his parents and his income to his aid, and was ready for the baronet when that gentleman turned and faced him in front of the fire.
"I love your daughter," he said, with his voice not quite so cool and manly as he had intended it to be.
Sir Ralph bowed, but said nothing. His back was to the fire, and so his face was in heavy shadow.
"I love her very dearly," continued the other. "I believe no man could love a woman more, for it is with my whole heart, and with every fibre of my being. I know, sir, that my rank is not exalted, and that she is the—"
The baronet raised his hand sharply.
The gesture silenced Kingswell in the middle of his sentence more effectively than a clap of thunder would have done it.