but I shan't mind. It will be rather fun
living in a small house and playing at housekeeping. I never cared much
for money."

Mr Goring grimaced expressively. Jean had not cared for money, simply
because she had never realised its value. Every want had been supplied,
and there had been a comfortable certainty of a lenient parent in the
background when her own generous allowance ran short. Graceless mortals
never realise the value of the blessings which are theirs in abundance.
Jean had enjoyed easy means and perfect health all her life, and took
them as much for granted as light and air.

"Hadn't you better take some cooking lessons, or something?" asked her
father uneasily. It crossed his mind at that moment that he had not
done his duty by the man whom Jean was about to marry, in allowing his
girl to grow up in absolute ignorance of her work in the world.
"Gloucester doesn't strike me as a man likely to make money, and you
ought to be trained. Talk to Miggles. Ask her. She has about as good
an idea of running a house as any woman I know. It's a good thing you
are going to live within reach of home. I'm thankful Gloucester thinks
of settling in town."

"Yes, oh, yes! Of course, if they gave him a really good offer for
India--I should rather like to live in India!"

Jean smiled into space, blissfully unconscious of the pain on her
father's face. He was not a demonstrative man, and no one but himself
knew how he had loved and cherished this child of his youth--the
daughter who had inherited the beauty and charm of the girl-wife with
whom he had spent the golden year of his life. To his own heart he
acknowledged that Jean was his dearest possession--dearer than wife,
dearer than sons, dearer than life itself, and Jean could leave him
without a pang--would "rather like" to put the width of the world
between them!

"India's a long way off, Jean. I should miss you if you went."

"But we'd come home, father. We'd have a long holiday every five
years."

Well! well! Mr Goring reminded himself that in his own youth he had
been equally callous. He recalled the day of his first marriage, and
saw again the twisted face of his mother as she bade him adieu at the
door. He had known a pang of regret at the sight, regret for _her_
suffering, her loss; not for his own. For himself, the moment had been
one of unalloyed triumph; he had heaved a sigh of relief as the carriage
bore him away and he was alone with