'
'I don't understand.'
Rose was flushing. Her nerves grew tense; she had wrought herself to a
simple audacity which overcame small embarrassments.
'Mr. Burroughs says that he followed us home from Paddington to discover
our address. That is not true. He asked me for my name and address in the
train, and gave me his.'
The father gasped.
'He _asked_--? You _gave_--?'
'It was whilst you were away in the refreshment-room,' proceeded the girl,
with singular self-control, in a voice almost matter-of-fact. 'I ought to
tell you, at the same time, that it was Mr. Burroughs who brought me the
flowers from the inn, when I forgot them. You didn't see him give them to
me in the station.'
The father stared.
'But, Rose, what does all this mean? You--you overwhelm me! Go on, please.
What next?'
'Nothing, father.'
And of a sudden the girl was so beset with confusing emotions that she
hurriedly quitted her chair and vanished from the room.
Before Mr. Whiston returned to his geographical drawing on Monday morning,
he had held long conversations with Rose, and still longer with himself.
Not easily could he perceive the justice of his daughter's quarrel with
propriety; many days were to pass, indeed, before he would consent to do
more than make inquiries about Charles James Burroughs, and to permit that
aggressive young man to give a fuller account of himself in writing.
Pages:
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224