Her father and her husband, who had both been a little pale at their first encounter, were growing now just faintly flushed. The boy was right. The haste to send her upon her way now had but one interpretation—the recognition of his own immediate danger, the fear that if this tender association continued, he would end in offering her a calamity quite as impossible as that which had happened—the love of a man who was in all probability older than her father! The hurt was no less intensive because it was so ridiculous. The Iron Bar. It was too good to be true. ’ ‘I beg your pardon?’ said Miss Froxfield frostily.
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