"Perhaps you would explain to her? Ah, would you be so kind! Tell her I have seen much trouble of late. My father has just died, after years of illness; and we were kept
in perpetual terror. You will tell her why I dared not go to her before: oh no! not that—not that!"
"You forget, madame, that I myself do not know."
"It is better she should not know—better she should not know!" she said, rapidly. "No, let the girl have confidence in her father while she remains in his house. Perhaps some time she may know; perhaps some one who is a fairer judge than I will tell her the story and make excuses: it must be that there is some excuse."
"She will not want to know; she will only want to come to you."
"But half an hour, give me half an hour," she said, and she glanced round the room. "It is so poor a chamber."
"She will not think of the chamber."
"And the little girl with her—she will remain down-stairs, will she not? I wish to be alone, quite alone, with my child." Her breath came and went quickly, and she clasped her fingers tight. "Oh, monsieur, my heart will break if my child is cold to me!"
"That is the last thing you have to fear," said he, and he rose. "Now calm yourself, madame. Recollect, you must not frighten your daughter. And it will be more than half an hour before I bring her to you; it will take more than that for me to break it to her."
She rose also; but she was obviously so excited that she did not know well what she was doing. All her thoughts were about the forth-coming interview.