ys, speaking with some
difficulty, but very earnestly. "To-day I met Horace Branscombe."

"Yes?" His face changes a little, from vague expectancy to distinct
disappointment; but then she cannot see his face.

"And he asked me to be his wife--and--I said, Yes--if--if it pleases
you, papa."

It is over. The dreaded announcement is made. The words that have cost
her so much to utter have gone out into the air; and yet there is no
answer!

For a full minute silence reigns, and then Clarissa lays her hand
imploringly upon her father's shoulder. He is looking straight before
him, his expression troubled and grave, his mouth compressed.

"Speak to me," says Clarissa, entreatingly.

After this he does speak.

"I wish it had been Dorian," he says, impulsively.

Then she takes her hand from his shoulder, as though it can no longer
rest there in comfort, and her eyes fill with disappointed tears.

"Why do you say that?" she asks, with some vehemence. "It sounds as
if--as if you undervalued Horace! Yet what reason have you for doing
so? What do you know against him?"

"Nothing, literally nothing," answers Mr. Peyton, soothingly, yet with
a plaintive ring in his voice that might suggest the idea of his being
sorry that such answer must be made. "I am sure Horace is very much to
be liked."

"How you say that!"--reproachfully. "It sounds untrue! Yet it can't
be. What could any one say against Horace?"

"My dear, I said nothing."

"No, but you insinuated it. You said Dorian was his superior."

"Well, I think he is the better man of the two," said Mr. Peyton,
desperately, hardly knowing what to say, and feeling sorely aggrieved
in that he is compelled to say what must hurt her.

"I cannot understand you; you said you know nothing prejudicial to
Horace (it is impossible you should), and yet you think Dorian the
better man. If he has done no wrong, why should any one be a better
man? Why draw the comparison at all? For the first time in all your
life, you are unjust."

"No, Clarissa, I am not. At least, I think not. Injustice is a vile
thing. But, somehow, Sartoris and I had both made up our minds that
you would marry Dorian, and----"

He pauses.

"Then your only objection to poor Horace is that he is not Dorian?"
asks she, anxiously, letting her hand once more rest upon his
shoulder.

"Well, no doubt there is a great deal in that," returns he, evasively,
hard put to it to answer his inquisitor with discretion.