“I do not know. To me she has been dead these eighteen years,” he answered, with a stern look upon his hard-set features. A lump rose in his throat, and in his eye there was a suspicion of a tear.
“Was she like me?” Liane asked softly, still holding her father’s hand and looking up at him.
“Yes, darling,” he replied. “Sometimes when you look at me I shrink from you because your eyes are so like hers. She was just your age when I married her.”
There was a long and painful silence. The hearts of father and daughter were too full for words. They were indeed an incongruous pair. He was a reckless gamester, a cunning adventurer, whose career had more than once brought him within an ace of arrest, while she, although prematurely versed in the evil ways of a polyglot world, where the laws of rectitude and morality were lax, was nevertheless pure, honest and good.
“But, dear old dad, why may I not marry George?” she asked when, after thinking deeply over the truth regarding her parentage, her mind reverted to thoughts of the man she loved.
“I cannot sufficiently explain the reason now,” he answered vaguely. “Some day, when I am aware of all the facts, you shall know.”
“But I can love no other man,” she exclaimed decisively, with eyes downcast.
“You know my wish, Liane,” her father answered rather coldly. “I feel sure you will endeavour to respect it.”
“I cannot, father! I really cannot!” she cried starting up. “Besides, you give me no reason why I should not marry.”
“I am unable to explain facts of which I am as yet unaware,” he said, withdrawing his hand.