He returned the locket without comment. She was marvellously pretty, but he was not quite sure—yet—that it was advisable for him to sit with her in so public a place. Not one of them but bore the marks of having been engaged in a recent and severe conflict. ‘Can you not open it?’ she cried. Spurlock was basically a poet, quick to recognize beauty, animate or inanimate, and to transcribe it in unuttered words. It should be the happiest day of your life, and I would not detract from its happiness by letting you remember for a moment that there are others to whom your inevitable decision must bring some pain. We’re hard stuff!” Then she went on: “To think that is my father! Oh, my dear! He stood over me like a cliff; the thought of him nearly turned me aside from everything we have done.
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