His manner
failed to show even a pretence of being glad to see Hugh. What he had
to say, he said walking up and down the room, and scratching his
bristly iron-gray hair from time to time. Those signs of restlessness
indicated, to those who knew him well, that he had a selfish use to
make of a fellow-creature, and failed to see immediately how to reach
the end in view.
"I say, Mountjoy," he began, "have you any idea of what my daughter is
about?"
"I don't even understand what you mean," Hugh replied. "For the last
month I have been in Scotland."
"You and she write to each other, don't you?"
"Yes."
"Hasn't she told you--"
"Excuse me for interrupting you, Mr. Henley; she has told me nothing."
Mr. Henley stared absently at the superbly-bound books on his
library-shelves (never degraded by the familiar act of reading), and
scratched his head more restlessly than ever.
"Look here, young man. When you were staying with me in the country, I
rather hoped it might end in a marriage engagement. You and Iris
disappointed me--not for the first time. But women do change their
minds. Suppose she had changed her mind, after having twice refused
you? Suppose she had given you an opportunity--"
Hugh interrupted him again.
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