“Perhaps not, my dear sir, perhaps not; but, at the same time, the situation is such that he cannot possible prosecute.”
“What do you mean?” thundered Westerham, again laying his hand roughly on Melun's shoulder.
“Pardon me,” Melun answered, shaking himself free, “but that is my business—and Lord Penshurst's business.”
Poor little Lady Kathleen sobbed till she could sob no more. Then she lifted her head wearily, mopped her swollen eyes, and, gathering herself together, walked slowly back to the Hall.
She went at once to her father's room, to find the Premier in a scarcely less pitiable frame of mind than she was in herself.
The old man was sitting at his desk, his head buried in his hands, though the table was littered with papers requiring urgent attention.
Kathleen walked up behind him, and, placing one of her hands on his head, stroked his hair gently.
“Poor father!” she said.