The next day Thorpe called at the Randolphs’. The man, Cochrane, who, himself, looked yellow and haggard, informed him that the ladies were indisposed with severe colds. Thorpe went home and wrote Nina a letter, making no allusion to the performance at the Mission, but insisting that she recognise his rights, and let him know when he could see her and come to a definite understanding. A week passed without a reply. Then Thorpe, tormented by every doubt and fear which can assail a lover, called again. The ladies were still indisposed. It was Sunday. Thorpe demanded to see Mr. Randolph, and was shown into the library.

Mr. Randolph entered in a few moments, and did not greet Thorpe with his customary warmth. There were black circles about his eyes. His cheeks looked thinner and his hand trembled.

“Have you been ill, too?” asked Thorpe, wondering if South Park were a healthy locality.

“No; not ill. I have been much harassed—business.”

“Nothing serious, I hope.”

“It will right in time—but—in a new city—and with no telegraphic communication with the rest of the world—nor quick postal service—there is much to impede business and try the patience.”

Thorpe was a man of quick intuitions. He knew that Mr. Randolph was lying. However, that was not his business. He rose and stood before the fire, nervously flicking his trousers with his riding-whip.

“Has it occurred to you that I love your daughter?” he asked, abruptly. “Or—perhaps—she has told you?”

“She has not spoken to me on the subject; but I inferred as much.”

“I wish, of course, to marry her. You know little about me. My bankers—and Hastings—will tell you that I am well able to take care of your daughter. In fact, I am a fairly rich man. This sort of thing has to be said, I suppose—”

“I have not misunderstood your motives. I misjudge few men; I have lived here too long.”

“Oh—thanks. Then you have no objection to raise?”

“No; I have none.”

“Your daughter loves me.” Thorpe had detected a slight accent on the pronoun.

“I am sure of that.”

“Do you mean that Mrs. Randolph might object?”

“She would not be consulted.”

Thorpe shifted his position uneasily. The hardest part was to come.

“Nina has intimated to me,” he said, haltingly, “that there is a—some mysterious reason which would prevent her marrying. I have utterly disregarded that reason, and shall continue to do so. I purpose to marry her, and I hope you will—will you?—help me.”

Mr. Randolph leaned forward and twisted his nervous pale hands together. It was at least three minutes before he spoke, and by that time Thorpe’s ear-drums were pounding.

“I must leave it to her,” he said, “utterly to her. That is a question which only she can decide—and you. Of course she will tell you—she is too honest not to; but I am afraid she will stave it off as long as possible. I cannot tell you; it would not be just to her.”

“But you will do nothing to dissuade her?”

“No; she is old enough to judge for herself. And if she decides in your favour, and you—are still of the same mind, I do not deny that I shall be very glad. I should even be willing for you to take her to England, to resign myself never to see her again—if I could think—if you thought it was for the best.”

“I wish I knew what this cursed secret was,” said Thorpe, passionately. “I am half distracted with it.”

“Have you no suspicion?”

“It seems to me that I have thought of everything under heaven; and she denied one question after the other. I am bound to take her word, and to believe that the truth was the one thing I did not hit upon.”

“Yes; if you had guessed, I think she would have told you, whether she was ready or not. It is very strange. You are one of the sharpest men I have ever met. Still, it is often the way.”

“When can I see Nina?”

“In a few days—a week, I should say. Her cold is very severe.”

“I have written to her, and she has not answered. Is it possible that her illness is serious? I have put it down to caprice or some new qualm.”

“There is no cause for alarm. But she has some fever, and pain in her eyes, and is irritable. When she is well I will take it upon myself to see that you have an interview.”

“Thank you.” Mr. Randolph had not risen, but Thorpe felt himself dismissed. He left the house in a worse humour than he had entered it. He felt balked, repulsed, and disagreeably prescient. For the first time in his life, he uneasily admitted that an iron will alone would not keep a man on the straight line of march to his goal, that there was a chain called Circumstance, and that it was forged of many metals.