relationship."

"She called you a tide-waiter," said his wife indignantly.

"At least I'm not a white-tied waiter," cried Mr. Driver, with a
laugh, in which all joined. Then in low voice Dolly said--

"I met Mr. Purling at Purlington."

At which her father turned upon her with newly-raised suspicion. Why
had she not mentioned the fact before? But something in Mrs. Driver's
face deterred him. A woman in these matters sees how the land lies,
while the cleverest man is still unable to distinguish it from the
clouds upon the horizon-line.

"We are pleased to know you, Harold," said Mrs. Driver, a gentle,
soft-voiced motherly person.

"You have really come to practise here?" went on the father, still
rather on his guard.

"I wanted sea-air. The change will do me good," replied Harold, rather
evasively. "I like the place, too."

Not a doubt of it. Harbridge was after his own heart, and so were some
people who lived in it. He found it so much to his taste that he
declared within a week or two that he thought of remaining there
altogether. He would go into partnership with the local doctor;
perhaps he had another partnership also in his eye.

"Can't you see what's going on under your nose, father?" asked Mrs.
Driver.

"What do I care? I shall not interfere."

"Mrs. Purling will never give her consent. Poor Doll!"

"_That_ for Mrs. Purling and her consent!" said Mr. Driver, snapping
his fingers. "Doll is ever so much too good for them--well, not for
him; he is an honest, straightforward fellow: but as for that selfish,
silly, purse-proud old woman, she may thank Heaven if she gains a
daughter like Doll."

That this was not Mrs. Purling's view of the question was plainly
evident from a letter which awoke Harold rather rudely from his rosy
dreams.

"So at length I have found you out, Harold. I never dreamt you could
be so deceitful and double-faced. To talk of clinical lectures in
town, and all the time at Harbridge, philandering with that forward,
intriguing girl! Only with the greatest difficulty have I succeeded in
learning the truth. Phillipa--who, it seems, has known your secret all
along, and to whom, I find, you have constantly written--could not
continue indifferent to my distress of mind. Although she has shielded
you so far with a magnanimity that is truly heroic, she has interposed
at length only to save my life.

"I desire you will come to me at once. Do not disobey me, Harold. I am
very seriously