Steps to aid the descent, which was too steep to be safe without them, led to, a door on the opposite side. He was a square-faced man of nearly fifty, with iron-gray hair a mobile, cleanshaven mouth and rather protuberant black eyes that now scrutinized Ann Veronica. “Please forgive me coming up, Miss Pellissier, but you have not been down to dinner for three nights, and—Brendon and I—we were afraid that you might be unwell. But if I escape, my gratitude—" "Pshaw!" interrupted Jonathan, scornfully. “You can count upon me, Nigel,” she said. 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. His patient was distinctly of a different order of life. He regretted now that in his idle hours he hadn't hunted up one against the rainy day.
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