“You have told me that several times before,” she remarked in a quiet, mechanical voice and with an assumed air of unconcern.
“And I mean it,” he said earnestly. “Only you had better not tell your father that I am here. It is, perhaps, unwise to let him know that I have followed you from San Donato—he may suspect.”
“Suspect what?”
“Well, suspect the reason of my visit to you to-day,” he said, surprised at her quick question. “You see I have come here because—well, to tell you the truth,” he faltered, “I am here to tell you something which I wanted to say at San Donato—yet I dared not.”
“What—is it bad news?” she asked, looking at him with some apprehension.
A long silence fell between them. He was watching her, hesitating whether he should speak. At length, however, he suddenly took her hand and said—
“As I have told you, I am your father’s friend. You may doubt me; probably you do. But one day I shall prove to you that I am acting solely from motives of friendship—that I am endeavouring to shield your father from the impending blow.”
“If you are, why do you not go to my father and tell him everything?” she asked, inwardly filled with doubt and mistrust.
“Because, as I have told you, it is impolitic to do so at this moment. We must wait.”
“And while we wait his enemies may take advantage.”