Dyke, immediately obeying, went to the sofa and sat down.
Eustace had gone to the double doors and he opened one of them, disclosing the music-room as a sombre and empty vault. He closed the door again and turning from it said that, since they were here for a delicate confidential talk, it was just as well to make sure they would not be overheard. This, as he had intended, set the thing going.
Mr. Verinder, balancing the paper-knife, drove at the heart of the matter and spoke of “these attentions and meetings.” He said he felt sure that Dyke would himself see that they must cease.
“Mr. Verinder,” said Dyke, gravely and very gently, “I hope you will allow me to say that I would sooner die than injure your daughter.”
“Just so,” said Mr. Verinder. “I was quite prepared to believe so, but—”
Dyke interrupted him. “No, I would rather kill myself many times than harm a hair of her head.” As he said this, not only his voice but his face softened in the most extraordinary manner; and Mr. Verinder was pleased with the man for saying it. But Dyke went on, with his blue eyes fixed on Mr. Verinder and his voice becoming a mere whisper. “Not one pretty dark hair of her sweet little head.”
The outrageous use of such adjectives made Mr. Verinder tremble from wrath; but, with difficulty controlling himself, he spoke in a firm quiet tone.
“If there is any meaning in what you are saying, Mr. Dyke, you will give me an assurance that no further molestation will occur.”
Dyke remained silent for a little while, and during the pause Gussie was heard to mention the national pastime—“Not cricket, what!” Dyke did not seem to hear him; he was now looking at the parquetry. “Mr. Verinder,” he said, looking up, “this is not plain-sailing, it is complicated. I suppose you know that Emmie—”
Mr. Verinder flapped with the paper-knife and grew hot and red. The use of his daughter’s christian name, the use of a grossly familiar abbreviation of that name! Not a member of the family ever called her anything shorter than Emmeline. But Dyke went on, as if oblivious of his offence.