“I don't care,” she said at last.
“I thought it might cause you some anxiety.”
“What have I to be afraid of when I've got you?” she asked simply.
John twisted round in his chair and reached out his hand—a rare demonstration of affection—and took hers.
“It's to assure you, my dear, that you've nothing to fear that I 've told you.”
“She can't hurt me,” said Unity.
“By heaven, she sha'n't!” he cried, unconsciously wrenching her arm so that he caused her considerable pain, which she bore without the flicker of an eyelid. “You 're a fine, brave girl, Unity, and I'm proud of you. And you 're a good girl, too. I hope you 're happy here; are you?”
“Happy?” Her voice quavered on the word. Her mouth twitched, and the tears started from her eyes. He smiled on her, one of his rare smiles, known to few besides Stellamaris, which lit up his heavy features, and revealed a guardian far different from the inaccessible Olympian.
“Yes, my dear, I hope so. I want you to be happy all your life long.”
She uttered a little sobbing laugh and fell crouching to his feet, still clinging to his hand, which she rubbed against her cheek. How could she tell him otherwise?