Löwenberg was alone, and the room had a tossed look about it, very different from the cosy aspect it usually wore. The invalid lay on a couch, with a discontented expression on his dark, thin face.
“Are you worse to-night?” gently asked Holcombe.
“Ay, worse indeed, and you must add to my troubles after I had treated you as a son!”
“I! My friend, do you think that of me? Don't you know me better?”
“Ah!” said the invalid irritably, “don't try to deceive me. You know I have nothing left to care for but my daughter, and you have been trying to convert her. I know why, too, but you shall not see her any more.”
“You wrong me, Herr Löwenberg. I have never spoken to your daughter about religion, because I did not know whether it might be agreeable to her or not, and she never started the subject.”
“You know she goes to your church?”
“Yes, I have seen her there several times; she never saw me, however, and I never hinted to her that I had seen her.”
“You speak very fairly about it; but I know how unscrupulous you Christians can be in this matter. You would think it a grand thing to convert her.”
“Undoubtedly, if I could do it by sheer conviction. But you should know me too well to believe I would do it by any undue or secret influence.”