The picture I had before me, of the beautiful little treasure of my heart, sobbing and crying all night⁠—of her being alone, frightened, and wretched, then⁠—of her having so piteously begged and prayed that stony-hearted woman to forgive her⁠—of her having vainly offered her those kisses, work-boxes, and trinkets⁠—of her being in such grievous distress, and all for me⁠—very much impaired the little dignity I had been able to muster. I am afraid I was in a tremulous state for a minute or so, though I did my best to disguise it.

“There is nothing I can say, sir,” I returned, “except that all the blame is mine. Dora⁠—”

“Miss Spenlow, if you please,” said her father, majestically.

“⁠—was induced and persuaded by me,” I went on, swallowing that colder designation, “to consent to this concealment, and I bitterly regret it.”