"I believe you are a very good man," I said; "I am sure of it, and I thank you very much; but you must understand that to me you seem like a father, and I can never, never think of you in any other light. You will forgive me, but I cannot say any more--I can never say any more. I do like you, but I can never say anything more at all." I did not touch his hand. I walked slowly towards the door; Lord Hawtrey opened it for me; I passed out. He bent his head in acknowledgment of my "Good night," and then, as I was going upstairs, I noticed that he shut the drawing-room door very softly. CHAPTER XIII When Lady Helen went to the opera or the theatre, or to special balls or suppers, she invariably was late for breakfast the next morning, and on these occasions my father generally had his breakfast with her in her bedroom. Lady Helen would not put in an appearance until lunch time, and I therefore would have the morning all to myself. After that eventful day and after that almost sleepless night, I was quite certain that I should not find anyone waiting for me in the breakfast-room. To my astonishment, however, both Lady Helen and my father were there. They looked at me when I came in, my father with anxiety and affection, Lady Helen with a world of meaning in her knowing, worldly old face. On the night before I had torn the roses with feverish haste from my dress, stuck them into a great bowl of water, and desired Morris to take them away; I said that the perfume gave me a headache, and that I did not wish to see them again. She obeyed me in some astonishment, raising her brows a trifle. When I entered the breakfast-room this sun-shiny spring morning, I interrupted a very animated _tête-à-tête_ between my father and his wife. I sat down quietly. Neither spoke to me beyond saying the most conventional "Good morning," and I ate in feverish haste what breakfast I required. Immediately afterwards I rushed to my room, pinned some fresh violets into my pretty morning dress, put on a shady hat, and desired Morris to accompany me to Hyde Park. Morris was quite agreeable. As we walked along I saw that she was murmuring something under her breath. "What are you saying, Morris?" I asked, speaking with slight impatience, for my heart was beating so very fast I could scarcely control myself. "I dislike people muttering in the streets," I continued. "I am sorry, miss," said Morris. "In future I'll keep my thoughts to myself; they are all about you. Oh, dear! I wish I had one of those Marguerite daisies; maybe I'd know the future if I could pull off the petals." "What do you mean?" I asked. "He loves me, he don't; he'll have me, he won't; he would if he could, but he can't, so he won't," said Morris, bringing out the gibberish in a rapid tone. I laughed. "Oh, Morris," I said, "how your thoughts do run on love and lovers! Now let's think of something else."