Another long silence. And out of it, "What do you want me to do?"
"My mother told me to come. I have a letter that she left for me. I did not know until I read it that you were alive."
He leaned forward. "She kept it away from you?"
"From everybody except her sisters. People thought she was a widow."
He considered that for a moment. "Yet in the end she sent you to me?"
"Yes."
He did not pursue the subject. He sat there, weighing, apparently, the unusual situation which confronted him; measuring this girl, who called herself his daughter, with a keen glance.
"You're a Carew all right," he said at last abruptly. "You look like me and like all the rest of us. You've got our hair and eyes."
She felt embarrassed by his scrutiny, wished that he would talk of her mother.
"You ought to have more color in your cheeks," he went on. "Do you ride?"
"A little."
"Dance?"
"A little."
"Any accomplishments? French?"
"Ma mère m'a enseignée ce qu'elle savait."
"Vous êtes une très bonne élève." He surveyed her with speculating eyes, then seemed to come to a quick decision. "Is there any reason why you can't stay on for a while? We might as well settle that now. I've
