If I cannot make a living at that, I
shall try something else."
"You disappoint me," Wingrave said. "There is no place for you in
London. There are thousands starving there already because they can
paint a little, or sing a little, or fancy they can. Do you find it
dull down here?"
"Dull!" she exclaimed wonderingly. "I think that there can be no place
on earth so beautiful as Tredowen."
"You are happy here?"
"Perfectly!"
"Then, for heaven's sake, forget all this folly," Wingrave said
hardly. "London is no place for children. Miss Harrison can take you
up for a month when you choose. You can go abroad if you want to. But
for the rest--"
She rose suddenly, and sweeping across the office with one graceful
movement, she leaned over Wingrave's chair. Her hands rested upon his
shoulders, her eyes, soft with gathering tears, pleaded with his.
Wingrave sat with all the outward immobility of a Sphinx.
"Dear Sir Wingrave," she said, "you have been so generous, so kind,
and I may not even speak of my gratitude. Don't please think me
unreasonable or ungracious. I can't tell you how I feel, but I must, I
must, I must go away. I could not live here any longer now that I
know. Fancy for a moment that I am your sister, or your daughter!
Don't you believe, really, that she would feel the same? And I think
you would wish her to. Don't be angry with me, please."
Wingrave's face never changed; but his fingers gripped the arms of his
chair so that a signet ring he wore cut deep into his flesh.
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