ing to steady
himself by some familiar contact, an effort that would have been absurd if
it had not been so pathetic.

Arthur nodded, as stolid as an owl.

His father continued to search him with the same half-bewildered stare.

"What are you going to do, then?" he asked.

"She and I are going back, whatever happens." Arthur said.

"And suppose they won't let her go?"

"They'll have to."

"Have to!" Banks recited, raising his voice at the repetition of this
foolish phrase. "And how in the world are you going to make 'em?"

"The Jervaises aren't everybody," Arthur growled.

"You'll find they're a sight too strong for the like of us to go against,"
Banks affirmed threateningly.

Arthur looked stubborn and shook his head. "They aren't what you think
they are, father," he began, and then, seeing the incredulity on the old
man's face, he went on in a slightly raised voice, "Well, I know they
aren't. I've been up there twice to-day. I saw Mr. Jervaise this morning;
went to the front door and asked for him, and when I saw him I put it to
him straight that I meant to--that we were going to get married."

"You did," murmured Banks in an undertone of grieved dismay.

"I did, father," Arthur proceeded; "and if it hadn't been for young Mr.
Frank, we'd have come to some sort of understanding. Mr. Jervaise didn't
actually say 'No,' as it was."

"And you went up again this evening?" Banks prompted him.

"Yes; I only saw Mr. Frank, then," Arthur replied, "and he was in such a
pad, there was no talking to him. Anne can tell you why."

Banks did not speak but he turned his eyes gravely to his daughter.

Anne lifted her head with the movement of one who decides to plunge and be
done with it. "He'd been making love to me in the morning," she said; "and
I--played with him for Arthur's sake. I thought it might help, and
afterwards I showed him that I'd been letting him make a fool of himself
for nothing, that's all."

The old man made no audible comment, but his head drooped a little forward
and his body seemed to shrink a little within the sturdy solidity of his
oak armchair. Anne, also, had betrayed him. Perhaps, he looked forward and
saw the Home Farm without Anne--she could not stay after that--and
realised that the verdict of his destiny was finally pronounced.

I turned my eyes away from him, and I think the others, too, feigned some
preoccupation that left him a little space of solitude. We none of us
spoke, and I