Lovel answered, in a strange tone.
"But I do not want to speak of these things. It is your fault; you had no
right to talk of Arden. _That_ subject always raises a devil in me."
He paced the room backwards and forwards for a few minutes in an agitated
way, as if trying to stifle some passion raging inwardly.
He was a man of about fifty, tall and slim, with a distinguished air, and
a face that must once have been very handsome, but perhaps, at its best, a
little effeminate. The face was careworn now, and the delicate features
had a pinched and drawn look, the thin lips a half-cynical, half-peevish
expression. It was not a pleasant countenance, in spite of its look of high
birth; nor was there any likeness between Marmaduke Lovel and his daughter.
His eyes were light blue, large and bright, but with a cold look in them--a
coldness which, on very slight provocation, intensified into cruelty; his
hair pale auburn, crisp and curling closely round a high but somewhat
narrow forehead.
He came back to the breakfast-table presently, and seated himself in his
easy-chair. He sipped a cup of coffee, and trifled listlessly with a morsel
of dried salmon.
"I have no appetite this morning," he said at last, pushing his plate away
with an impatient gesture; "nor is that kind of talk calculated to improve
the flavour of a man's breakfast. How tall you have grown, Clarissa, a
perfect woman; remarkably handsome too! Of course you know that, and there
is no fear of your being made vain by anything I may say to you.
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