said, as with a reassuring smile and wave of the hand he resumed his walk. "People say as much—I only mean, that our good Mr Hansted has too great an inclination to be wrapped up in himself, a want of the power of assimilating himself; but I know I have done all I could to make him feel at home. And I am sure you have, too. I've often seen you walking in the garden together. You have—as far as I understand—many tastes in common; he thinks a great deal of your music—he told me so himself! So I can't imagine what makes him so reserved—for I don't suppose that you, Ragnhild—in any way—have—have hurt him?"
The Provst stopped again, this time in a dark corner of the room—and looked at his daughter with a wary and searching glance.
She appeared not to hear him, but sat with her arms crossed, looking straight before her, and the unapproachable expression with which she always turned aside any attempt of her father's to couple the curate's name with hers.
The Provst knitted his bushy eyebrows. He could not make anything of his child. With a gloomy mien he continued his walk up and down in silence, and shortly after left the room.
