He had a quiet tread, but
took determined strides at the floor. In his hand he held Mahony's card,
and he looked from Mahony to it and back again.
"To what do I owe the pleasure, Mr. . . . er . . . Mahony?" he asked,
refreshing his memory with a glance at the pasteboard. He spoke in the
brusque tone of one accustomed to run through many applicants in the
course of an hour. "I understand that you make use of my sister Mary's
name." And, as Mahony did not instantly respond, he snapped out: "My
time is short, sir!"
A tinge of colour mounted to Mahony's cheeks. He answered with equal
stiffness: "That is so. I come from Mr. William Beamish's 'Family
Hotel,' and am commissioned to bring you your sister's warm love and
regards."
John Turnham bowed; and waited.
"I have also to acquaint you with the fact," continued Mahony, gathering
hauteur as he went, "that the day before yesterday I proposed marriage
to your sister, and that she did me the honour of accepting me."
"Ah, indeed!" said John Turnham, with a kind of ironic snort. "And may I
ask on what ground you--"
"On the ground, sir, that I have a sincere affection for Miss Turnham,
and believe it lies in my power to make her happy."
"Of that, kindly allow me to judge. My sister is a mere child--too
young to know her own mind. Be seated."
To a constraining, restraining vision of little Polly, Mahony obeyed,
stifling the near retort that she was not too young to earn her living
among strangers.
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