"The income—and that only to be paid in a foreign land, and while you remain there."
"These are hard terms, Mr. Hurst, very hard terms, indeed," said Jameson. "Before I reply to to them—excuse me, I intend no offence—but I must hear from your daughter's own lips that she desires it."
Mr. Hurst started to his feet and sat instantly down again; for a moment he shrouded his eyes, and then he arose sternly and very pale, but with iron composure.
"From her own lips—hear it, then. Go in," he said, casting open the door through which he had entered the room, "go in!"
The room was large and dimly lighted; at the opposite end there was a high, deep sofa, cushioned with purple, and so lost in the darkness that it seemed black; what appeared in the distance to be a heap of white drapery, lay upon the sofa, immovable and still, as if it had been cast over a corpse.
Jameson paused and looked back, almost hoping that Mr. Hurst would follow him into the room, for there was something in the stillness that appalled him. But the merchant had left the door, and casting himself into a chair, sat with his arms flung out upon the table, and his face buried in them. For his life he could not have forced himself to witness the meeting of that vile man with his child.
Still Florence remained immovable; Jameson closed the door, and walking quickly across the room, like one afraid to trust his own strength, bent over the sofa.
Florence was lying with her face to the wall, her eyes were closed, and the whiteness of her features was rendered more deathly by the dim light. She had evidently heard the footstep, and mistaking it for her father's, for her eyelids began to quiver, and turning her face to the pillow, she gasped out with a shudder,
"Oh, father, father, do not look on me!"
Jameson knelt and touched the cold hand in which she had grasped a portion of the pillow.