hoose
to interrupt your plan by saying so. But if there were anything of
that kind going on, I should be bound to tell you that your cousin's
position at present is not a good one. Men do not speak well of him."

"There is nothing between us, papa; but if there were, men speaking
ill of him would not deter me."

"And men speaking well of Mr Grey will not do the other thing. I know
very well that women can be obstinate."

"I haven't come to this resolution without thinking much about it,
papa."

"I suppose not. Well;--I can't say anything more. You are your own
mistress, and your fortune is in your own keeping. I can't make you
marry John Grey. I think you very foolish, and if he comes to me I
shall tell him so. You are going down to Cheltenham, are you?"

"Yes, papa; I have promised Lady Macleod."

"Very well. I'd sooner it should be you than me; that's all I can
say." Then he took up his newspaper, thereby showing that he had
nothing further to say on the matter, and Alice left him alone.

The whole thing was so vexatious that even Mr Vavasor was disturbed
by it. As it was not term time he had no signing to do in Chancery
Lane, and could not, therefore, bury his unhappiness in his daily
labour,--or rather in his labour that was by no means daily. So he
sat at home till four o'clock, expressing to himself in various
phrases his wonder that "any man alive should ever rear a daughter."
And when he got to his club the waiters found him quite unmanageable
about his dinner, which he ate alone, rejecting all proposition of
companionship. But later in the evening he regained his composure
over a glass of whiskey-toddy and a cigar. "She's got her own money,"
he said to himself, "and what does it matter? I don't suppose she'll
marry her cousin. I don't think she's fool enough for that. And after
all she'll probably make it up again with John Grey." And in this way
he determined that he might let this annoyance run off him, and that
he need not as a father take the trouble of any interference.

But while he was at his club there came a visitor to Queen Anne
Street, and that visitor was the dangerous cousin of whom, according
to his uncle's testimony, men at present did not speak well. Alice
had not seen him since they had parted on the day of their arrival
in London,--nor, indeed, had heard of his whereabouts. In the
consternation of her mind at this step which she was taking,--a step
which she had taught herself to reg