“Mr. Ross!”

I did not like to hear him say “Mr.”  After he knew of my friendship with his daughter he had called me Malcolm Ross; and this obvious return to formality not only pained, but filled me with apprehension.  It must be something about Margaret.  I thought of her as “Margaret” and not as “Miss Trelawny”, now that there was danger of losing her.  I know now what I felt then:  that I was determined to fight for her rather than lose her.  I came back, unconsciously holding myself erect.  Mr. Trelawny, the keen observer of men, seemed to read my thought; his face, which was set in a new anxiety, relaxed as he said: 

“Sit down a minute; it is better that we speak now than later.  We are both men, and men of the world.  All this about my daughter is very new to me, and very sudden; and I want to know exactly how and where I stand.  Mind, I am making no objection; but as a father I have duties which are grave, and may prove to be painful.  I—­I”—­he seemed slightly at a loss how to begin, and this gave me hope—­“I suppose I am to take it, from what you have said to me of your feelings towards my girl, that it is in your mind to be a suitor for her hand, later on?” I answered at once: 

“Absolutely!  Firm and fixed; it was my intention the evening after I had been with her on the river, to seek you, of course after a proper and respectful interval, and to ask you if I might approach her on the subject.  Events forced me into closer relationship more quickly than I had to hope would be possible; but that first purpose has remained fresh in my heart, and has grown in intensity, and multiplied itself with every hour which has passed since then.”  His face seemed to soften as he looked at me; the memory of his own youth was coming back to him instinctively.  After a pause he said: 

“I suppose I may take it, too, Malcolm Ross”—­the return to the familiarity of address swept through me with a glorious thrill—­“that as yet you have not made any protestation to my daughter?”

“Not in words, sir.”  The arriere pensee of my phrase struck me, not by its own humour, but through the grave, kindly smile on the father’s face.  There was a pleasant sarcasm in his comment: 

“Not in words!  That is dangerous!  She might have doubted words, or even disbelieved them.”

I felt myself blushing to the roots of my hair as I went on: 

“The duty of delicacy in her defenceless position; my respect for her father—­I did not know you then, sir, as yourself, but only as her father—­restrained me.  But even had not these barriers existed, I should not have dared in the presence of such grief and anxiety to have declared myself.  Mr. Trelawny, I assure you on my word of honour that your daughter and I are as yet, on her part, but friends and nothing more!” Once again he held out his hands, and we clasped each other warmly.  Then he said heartily: 

“I am satisfied, Malcolm Ross.  Of course, I take it that until I have seen her and have given you permission, you will not make any declaration to my daughter—­in words,” he added, with an indulgent smile.  But his face became stern again as he went on: