He had studied alchemy and astronomy, was a capable painter, and even wrote music. Then he looked towards his granddaughter once more, who had flounced away to the window at her greataunt’s interruption. Selfishness. “You are a funny, a very funny young lady,” he said, “but we waste time here. He had quite enough to see to and worry about in the City without their doing things. The old lady’s face was stiff with anger. If he laid his own suspicions boldly before the girl, and in the end the boy came clean, he would always be haunted by the witless cruelty of the act. 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. “I believe it is.
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