letting go Athlyne's arm stepped forward towards her father with flashing eyes:
"Father what he says is God's truth. But there is one other thing which you should know, and you must know it from me since he will not speak. He is justified in speaking of my honour, for it was due—and due alone—to his nobility of character that I am as I am. That and your unexpected arrival. For my part I would have"
"Joy!" Athlyne's voice though the tone was low, rang like a trumpet. Half protest it was, half command. Instinctively the woman recognised the tone and obeyed, as women have obeyed the commands of the men they loved, and were proud to do so, from Eden garden down the ages.
"Speak on, daughter! Finish what you were saying." His voice was strangely soft and his eyes were luminous beneath their shaggy white brows. Joy's answering tone was meek:
"I cannot, father. My … Mr.—Lord Athlyne desires that I should be silent." She was astonished at his reply following:
"Well, perhaps he is right. Better so!" Then in sotto voce to Athlyne:
"Women should not be allowed to talk sometimes. They go too far when they get to self-abasement!" Athlyne nodded. Again silence which Colonel Ogilvie broke:
"Well, sir. I suppose we must take it that the marriage is complete in Scotch law. So far for the past. What of of the future?" In a low voice Athlyne replied:
"Whose future?"
"Yours—yours and my daughter's." He was amazed at Athlyne's reply, spoken in a voice both low and sad: so too was Joy:
"Of that I cannot say. It does not rest with me."
"Not rest with you, sir? Then with whom does it rest." Athlyne raised his eyes and looked him straight in the face:
"With you!"
