On that Sunday afternoon when Eloquent thought fit to visit his aunt,
Mr Ffolliot had left his writing-table and was standing in one of the
great windows that he might look out and, with the delicate
appreciation of the connoisseur, savour the crimson beauties of the
winter sunset.

As he gazed he mentally applauded the pageant of colour provided for
his enjoyment, and then he perceived two figures standing not fifty
yards from his window.

One he recognised at once as his daughter, and for a moment he included
her in his beatitude at the prospect presented to his view. Yes; Mary
was undoubtedly pleasing to the eye, she was growing very like his
wife, and for that resemblance, like the Ancient Mariner, "he blessed
her unaware."

But when he became fully cognisant of the other figure, his feeling
wholly changed. He screwed his eyeglass firmly into his eye and glared
at the couple.

Who on earth was this muddy, rather plebeian-looking person with whom
Mary was conversing on apparently friendly and familiar terms? He
suddenly realised with an irritated sense of rapidly approaching
complications that Mary was nearly grown up.

In another minute the young man was walking down the drive alone, and
his daughter had vanished.

He gave her time to take off her boots, then he sent for her.

He sat down at his writing-table and awaited her, feeling intensely
annoyed.

How dared that mud-bespattered young man speak to her?

How could Mary be so wanting in dignity as to reply?

What was Marjory about to allow it?

Those children had far too much latitude.

He was in that frame of mind which, during the middle ages, resulted in
the immurement of such disturbing daughters in the topmost turrets of
their fathers' castles.

Mary came in, shut the door softly, and waited just inside it to say
nervously:

"You sent for me, father?"

"Come here," said Mr Ffolliot.

Mary crossed the big room and stood at the other side of the knee-hole
table facing him.

"I sent for you," Mr Ffolliot began slowly, and paused. Angry as he
was, he found a moment in which to feel satisfaction at her pure
colouring . . . "to make enquiries" he continued, "as to your late
companion. Who is that exceedingly muddy person with whom you were
talking in the front drive a few minutes ago?"

Yes; her colouring was certainly admirable. A good healthy blush
sweeping over the white forehead till it reached the pretty growth of
hair round th