Ercildoune had been watching him closely.  “If she does not love you,” he answered, at the pause.

“I do not know.  I went away from here a little while ago with her peremptory command not to return.  I should not have dared disobey it had I not learned—­thought—­in fact, but for some circumstances—­I beg your pardon—­I do not know what I am saying.  I believed if I saw her once more I could change her determination,—­could induce her to give me another response,—­and came with that hope.”

“Which has failed?”

“Which has thus far failed that she will not at all see me; will hold no communication with me.  I should be a ruffian did I force myself on her thus without excuse or reason.  My own love would be no apology did I not think, did I not dare to hope, that it is not aversion to me that induces her to act as she has done.  Believing so, may I beg a favor of you? may I entreat that you will induce her to see me, if only for a little while?”

Ercildoune smiled a sad, bitter smile, as he answered, “Mr. Surrey, if my daughter does not love you, it would be hopeless for you or for me to assail her refusal.  If she does, she has doubtless rejected you for a reason which you can read by simply looking into my face.  No words of mine can destroy or do that away.”

“There is nothing to destroy; there is nothing to do away.  Thank you for speaking of it, and making the way easy.  There is nothing in all the wide world between us,—­there can be nothing between us,—­if she loves me; nothing to keep us apart save her indifference or lack of regard for me.  I want to say so to her if she will give me the chance.  Will you not help me to it?”

“You comprehend all that I mean?”

“I do.  It is, as I have said, nothing.  That love would not be worth the telling that considered extraneous circumstances, and not the object itself.”

“You have counted all the consequences?  I think not.  How, indeed, should you be able?  Come with me a moment.”  The two went up to the house, across the wide veranda, into a room half library, half lounging-room, which, from a score of evidences strewn around, was plainly the special resort of the master.  Over the mantel hung the life-size portrait of an excessively beautiful woman.  A fine, spirituelle face, with proud lines around the mouth and delicate nostrils, but with a tender, appealing look in the eyes, that claimed gentle treatment.  This face said, “I was made for sunshine and balmy airs, but, if darkness and storm assail, I can walk through them unflinching, though the progress be short; I can die, and give no sign.”  Willie went hastily up to this, and stood, absorbed, before it.  “Francesca is very like her mother,” said Ercildoune, coming to his side.  It was his own thought, but he made no answer.