He
spoke before Phyllis could answer.
"And so you are my little girl's betrothed!" he said with rather
stiff courtesy. "Ah--yes. I remember you, sir."
John Hewitt's gray eyes moved from Phyllis, standing there obviously
quite taken by surprise, to Joy, clinging to her burning-cheeked, in
what was quite as obviously an agony of terror. He caught his breath
for a moment, moved forward and opened his lips to speak, then shut
them again firmly and stood still where he was, with the afternoon
sunlight glinting over his fair head, and little Angela's more
golden one, pressed close beside it. As he remained still, his eyes
rested gravely on Joy: the very little princess of the fairytale,
with the dragon imminent at any moment. She looked very piteous and
terrified and small; not more than fifteen, and unbearably afraid of
him, with her black-framed blue eyes fixed on his in an appeal as
agonized as it was unconscious. He caught his breath again, then
turned to answer her grandfather, his decision made.
"I am glad you remember me, sir," he said gravely, "and exceedingly
glad that you are willing Joy should--"
Joy gave a long shudder of relief, and relaxed all over. He was not
going to put her to shame there before all of them. She would have
time to explain. She would not have her visit, but that, even,
seemed a small thing beside the dreadful danger she had just
escaped. She could tell him when they were alone.
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