“I believe,” he said slowly, “that I shall do best to throw myself upon your consideration and tell you the truth. She gazed steadily out of the window at that arc of glittering lights. Lord Charvill champed upon an invisible bit for a moment or two, closing the gap between himself and the girl, and muttering the name to himself in an overwrought sort of way. Her father for fifteen years, and you now for the rest of her life! Tell her you're a thief. Superstition—you knock into it whichever way you turn. Something that is born anew each time we meet, and pines when we are separated. Still, one never could tell.
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