"No, you couldn't. And yet—you would have let me go!"
He put his arm in hers, and drew her towards him.
"I must talk to your father," he said, "some day—soon. I ought to tell him—of our intentions. We cannot go on like this."
"No," she agreed, "I realize it. And I cannot stay, much longer, in Park Street. I must go back to New York, until you send for me, dear. And there are things I must do. Do you know, even though I antagonize him so—my father, I mean—even though he suspects and bitterly resents any interest in you, my affection for you, and that I have lingered because of you, I believe, in his way, he has liked to have me here."
"I can understand it," Hodder said.
"It's because you are bigger than I, although he has quarrelled with you so bitterly. I don't know what definite wrongs he has done to other persons. I don't wish to know. I don't ask you to tell me what passed between you that night. Once you said that you had an affection for him —that he was lonely. He is lonely. In these last weeks, in spite of his anger, I can see that he suffers terribly. It is a tragedy, because he will never give in."
"It is a tragedy." Hodder's tone was agitated.
"I wonder if he realizes a little" she began, and paused. "Now that
Preston has come home—"
"Your brother?" Hodder exclaimed.
"Yes. I forgot to tell you. I don't know why he came," she faltered. "I suppose he has got into some new trouble. He seems changed. I can't describe it now, but I will tell you about it . . . . It's the first time we've all three been together since my mother died, for Preston wasn't back from college when I went to Paris to study . . . ."