“What does he want?” said she.
“I do not know, Miss, but he asked if you could see him on an important matter. He has come down by the night train from London.”
“Oh, I’ll come and see him,” and she got up and went in.
Collins had slept on the way down, and had breakfasted on the train. He felt quite fresh after a motor ride from Wilton-on-Sea, but he had a strong distaste for his task.
He walked up and down the fine old drawing-room, through the open windows of which came the scent of roses.
The girl entered, and he was struck with her simple beauty, without any of the adornments of the modern girl, and in her dainty morning frock of cretonne.
He knew that in a few moments her present happiness would be turned to bitter sorrow. She advanced towards him at once, and took his hand in a friendly way.
“You are a friend of my father’s, I suppose,” she said.
“Miss Watson,” he said gravely. “It is no good beating about the bush. I have some bad news for you. You must try and be brave.”
“My father,” she said, with quick instinct.