"And if Dorian had never been, Horace would be the one person in all
the world you would desire for me?" pursues she, earnestly.

George Peyton makes no reply to this,--perhaps because he has not one
ready. Clarissa, stepping back, draws her breath a little quickly, and
a dark fire kindles in her eyes. In her eyes, too, large tears rise
and shine.

"It is because he is poor," she says, in a low tone, that has some
contempt in it, and some passionate disappointment.

"Do not mistake me," says her father, speaking hastily, but with
dignity. Rising, he pushes back his chair, and turning, faces her in
the gathering twilight. "Were he the poorest man alive, and you loved
him, and he was worthy of you, I would give you to him without a
murmur. Not that"--hurriedly--"I consider Horace unworthy of you, but
the idea is new, strange, and----the other day, Clarissa, you were a
child."

"I am your child still,--always." She is sitting on his knee now, with
her arms round his neck, and her cheek against his; and he is holding
her _svelte_ lissome figure very closely to him. She is the one thing
he has to love on earth; and just now she seems unspeakably--almost
painfully--dear to him.

"Always, my dear," he reiterates, somewhat unsteadily.

"You have seen so little of Horace lately," she goes on, presently,
trying to find some comfortable reason for what seems to her her
father's extraordinary blindness to her lover's virtues. "When you see
a great deal of him, you will love him! As it is, darling, do--_do_
say you like him very much, or you will break my heart!"

"I like him very much," replies he, obediently, repeating his lesson
methodically, while feeling all the time that he is being compelled to
say something against his will, without exactly knowing why he should
feel so.

"And you are quite pleased that I am going to marry him?" reading his
face with her clear eyes; she is very pale, and strangely nervous.

"My darling, my one thought is for your happiness." There is evasion
mixed with the affection in this speech; and Clarissa notices it.

"No: say you are glad I am going to marry him," she says,
remorselessly.

"How can you expect me to say that," exclaims he, mournfully, "when
you know your wedding-day must part us?"

"Indeed it never shall!" cries she, vehemently; and then, overcome by
the emotion of the past hour, and indeed of the whole day, she gives
way and bursts into tears. "Papa, how can you say t