Beatrix's answer to his telegram came that afternoon.

"Don't want to come home yet. Please let me stay. Am writing much love."

This angered him. It was a defiance; or so it struck him. He went down to the Post-Office himself, and sent another wire.

"Come up by morning train will meet you in London."

The rain had ceased. As he walked back over the muddy path that led through the park, the evening sun shone through a rift in the clouds, and most of the sky was already clear again. How he would have enjoyed this renewal of life and sunshine the evening before! But his mind was as dark now as the sky had been all day, and the relenting of nature brought it no relief.

Barbara and Bunting were out in the park with their mashies and putters, on the little practice course he had laid out. He kept the church between himself and them as he neared the house. They already knew that there was something amiss, and were puzzled and disturbed about it. In his life that had gone so smoothly there had never been anything to make him shun the company of his children, or to spoil their pleasure in his society, because of annoyance that he could not hide from them. He must tell them something—or perhaps Caroline had better—or Miss Waterhouse. He didn't want to tell them himself. It would make too much of it. Beatrix was going to be brought home; but not in disgrace. He didn't want that. She would be disappointed at first; but she would get over it, and they would all be as happy together as before. His thoughts did lighten a little as they dwelt for a moment on that.

He called for Caroline when he got into the house. He felt some compunction about her. He had taken her into his confidence, and then he had seemed to withdraw it, though he had not meant to do so. Of course he couldn't have told her the grounds of his objections to Lassigny as he had told them to Worthing, but he owed it to her to say at least what he was going to do. She had been very sweet to him at tea-time, trying her best to keep up the usual bright conversation, and to hide from the children that there was anything wrong with him, which he had not taken much trouble to hide himself. And she had put her hand on his knee under the table, to show him that she loved him and had sympathy with him. He had been immersed in his dark thoughts and had not returned her soft caress; and this troubled him a little, though he knew he could make it all right.

She came out to him at once from the morning-room, with some needlework in her hand. He took her face between his hands and kissed it. "I've sent B another wire to say she must come to London to-morrow," he said, "and I'll meet her."

She smiled up at him, with her eyes moist. "That will be the best way, Daddy," she said. "It will be all right when you talk to one another."

He put his arm round her, and they went into the morning-room. Miss Waterhouse was there, also with needlework in her hands. "I've told the Dragon," said Caroline in a lighter tone. "You didn't tell me not to tell anybody, Dad."

He sat down by the window and lit a cigarette. "You'd better tell Barbara and Bunting too," he said. "B ought not to have engaged herself without asking me first. Anyhow, she's much too young yet. I can't allow any engagement, for at least a year. I shall bring her down here, and we'll all be happy together."

Caroline felt an immense lightening of the tension. He had spoken in his usual equable untroubled voice, announcing a decision in the way that had always made his word law in the family, though he had never before announced a decision of such importance. Responsibility was lifted from her shoulders. It had seemed to be her part to help him in uncertainty of mind, and she had felt herself inadequate to the task. But now he had made up his mind, and she had only to accept his decision. Beatrix also, though it might be harder for her. But she would accept her father's ruling. They had always obeyed him, and he had made obedience so easy. After all, he did know best.

Miss Waterhouse laid down her work on her lap. "I'm sure it will be the best thing just to say that there can be no engagement for a certain fixed time," she said. It was seldom that she offered any advice without being directly asked for it. But she said this with some earnestness, her eyes fixed upon his face.

"Yes, that will be the best way," he said, and she took up her work again.

He did not revert again to his gloomy state that evening. He and Caroline presently went out and joined Barbara and Bunting. They played golf till it was time to dress for dinner, and played bridge after dinner. He was his usual self, except that he occasionally lapsed into silence and did not respond to what was said. Beatrix's name was not mentioned.

He went up to London early the next morning, spent the greater part of the day at the Bank, and dined at one of his clubs. He played bridge afterwards until it was time to go to the station to meet the train by which Beatrix would come. So far he had successively staved off unpleasant thoughts. He had not been alone all day, for he had found acquaintances in the train going up to London. He had wanted not to be alone. He had wanted to keep up that mood of lightly poised but unquestioned authority, in which he would tell Beatrix, without putting blame on her for what she had done, that it couldn't be, and then dismiss the matter as far as possible from his mind, and leave her to get over her disappointment, which he thought she would do quickly. He was not quite pleased with her, which prevented him from sympathising much beforehand with whatever disappointment she might feel; but his annoyance had largely subsided, and he was actually looking forward with pleasure to seeing her dear face again and getting her loving greeting.

Unfortunately the train was late, and he had to pace the platform for five and twenty minutes, during which time this lighter mood in its turn gave way to one of trouble almost as great as he had felt at first.

He had had no reply to his second telegram, although he had given instructions that if one came it was to be wired on to him at the Bank. Supposing she didn't come!

He had not yet heard from Lassigny; but if he had missed a post after Beatrix had written, his letter would not have reached Abington until the second post. But suppose Lassigny was travelling down with her!

What he had been staving off all day, instinctively, was the ugly possibility of Beatrix defying his authority. It would mean a fight between them, and he would win the fight. But it would be the upsetting of all contentment in life, as long as it lasted, and it would so alter the relations between him and the child he loved that they would probably never be the same again.

This possibility of Lassigny being with her now—of his undertaking her defence against her father, and of her putting herself into his hands to act for her—had not actually occurred to him before. The idea of it angered him greatly, and stiffened him against her. There was no pleasure now in his anticipation of seeing her again.

But he melted completely when he did see her. She and her maid were alone in their compartment, and she was standing at the door looking out eagerly for him. She jumped out at once and ran to him. "My darling old Daddy!" she said, with her arm round his neck. "You're an angel to come up and meet me, and I'm so pleased to see you. I suppose we're going to Cadogan Place to-night, aren't we?"

Not a word was said between them of what they had come together for until they were sitting in the dining-room over a light supper. The maid, who was the children's old nurse, had been in the car with them. Beatrix had asked many questions about Abington, and had chattered about the moors, but had not mentioned Lassigny's name. If she had chattered even rather more than she would have done normally upon a similar meeting, it was the only sign of something else that was filling her mind. She had not been in the least nervous in manner, and her affection towards him was abundantly shown, and obviously not strained to please him. If his thoughts of her had been tinged with bitterness, she seemed to have escaped that feeling towards him.

He supposed she had not understood his hostility towards her engagement. His telegram had only summoned her. It would make his task rather more difficult. But the relief of finding her still his loving child was greater than any other consideration. If he had taken refuge in bitter thoughts against her, he knew now how unsatisfying they were. He only wanted her love, and that had not been affected. He also wanted her happiness, and if it was to be his part to safeguard it for the future, by refusing her what she wanted in the present, it touched him now to think that his refusal must wound her. He had not allowed that consideration to affect him hitherto.

"Well, darling," he said, "you've given me a shock. These affairs aren't settled quite in that way, you know."

She looked up at him with a smile and a flush. "I was so happy," she said, "that I forgot all about that. But I came when you wanted me, Daddy."

Yes, it was going to be very difficult. But he must not allow his tenderness to take charge of him, though he could use it to soften the breaking of his decision to her.

"Why didn't he write to me?" he said.

"He did," she said. "Didn't you get his letter?"

"I haven't had it yet. If he wrote, I shall get it to-morrow, forwarded from Abington. He ought not to have asked you to engage yourself to him without asking my permission first."

"Well, you see, darling, it seemed to come about naturally. I suppose everybody was expecting it,—everybody but me, that is," she laughed gently—"and when it did come, of course everybody knew. He said he must write to you at once. He did think of coming down at once to see you, but I didn't want him to. Still, when your second telegram came, he said you'd expect it of him; so he's coming down to-night, to see you to-morrow."

Lassigny, then, seemed to have acted with correctness. But that he should have done so did not remove any objection to him as a husband for Beatrix. It only made it rather more difficult to meet him; for Beatrix's father would not be upheld by justifiable annoyance at having been treated with disrespect.

"I'm glad he didn't come down with you," he said.

"I wanted him to," she said simply. "But he wouldn't. He said you might not like it. He is such a dear, Daddy. He thinks of everything. I do love him." She got up and stood over him and kissed him. "I love you too, darling," she said, "more than ever. It makes you love everybody you do love more, when this happens to you."

He couldn't face it, with his arm round her, and her soft cheek resting confidently against his. He couldn't break up her happiness and her trust there and then. Better see the fellow first. By some miracle he might show himself worthy of her. His dislike of him for the moment was in abeyance. It rested on nothing that he knew of him—only on what he had divined.

"Well," he said; "we'd better go to bed and think it all over. I'll see him to-morrow."

"He's coming here about twelve," she said, releasing herself as he stood up. "If you are in the City I can tell him to go down and see you at the Bank."

"No," he said, "I will see him here. And I don't want you to see him before I do, B. We've got to begin it all over again, in the proper way. That's why I made you come here."

His slight change of tone caused her to look up at him. "You're not going to ask him to wait for me, are you, darling?" she asked. "We do want to get married soon. We do love each other awfully."

He kissed her. "Run along to bed," he said. "I'll tell you what I have decided when I've seen him to-morrow."

When they met at breakfast the next morning the atmosphere had hardened a little. Beatrix was not so affectionate to him in her manner as she had been; it was plain that she was not thinking of him much, except in his connection with her lover; and as the love she had shown him the night before had softened him towards the whole question, so now the absence of its signs hardened him. Of course her love for him was nothing in comparison with this new love of hers! He was a fool to have let it influence him. If he had been weak enough to let her go to bed thinking that he would make no objection to her eventual engagement, and only formalities stood in the way, it would be all the harder for her when she knew the truth.

"Have you had a letter from RenÉ?" was the first question she asked him when she had kissed him good-morning, with a perfunctory kiss that meant she was not in one of those affectionate moods which he found it so impossible to resist.

"Yes," he said shortly. "I'm going down to the Bank this morning, B. I'll see him there. I've told William to ask him to come on to the City when he comes here."

"Can't I see him first, Dad," she asked, "when he comes here?"

"No, darling. Look here, B, I didn't want to bother you last night. I was too pleased to see you again. But I don't want you to marry Lassigny. I don't like the idea of it at all."

She looked up at him with eyes wide open. "Why not, Dad?" she asked.

"I hate the idea of your marrying a Frenchman. I've never thought of such a thing. I wouldn't have asked him down to Abington if I had."

She looked down on her plate, and then looked up again. "You're not going to tell him we can't be married, are you?" she asked.

"I don't know what I'm going to tell him. I want to hear what he has to say first. That's only fair."

She seemed puzzled more than distressed. "I thought you liked him," she said. "I thought you only didn't like our getting engaged before he had spoken to you. You did like him at Abington, Dad; and he was a friend of Caroline's before he was a friend of mine. You didn't mind that. Why don't you want me to marry him? I love him awfully; and he loves me."

He was sorry he had said so much. He hadn't meant to say anything before his interview with Lassigny. But the idea that by a miracle Lassigny might prove himself worthy of her had faded; and her almost indifference towards him had made it not painful, as it would have been the night before, to throw a shadow over her expectations.

"You're very young," he said. "In any case I couldn't let you marry yet."

"I was afraid you'd say that," she said quietly. "RenÉ said you wouldn't. If you let us marry at all, there would be no reason why we shouldn't be married quite soon. How long should we have to wait, Dad?"

Her submissiveness touched him again. "I don't know, darling," he said. "I can't say anything till I've seen him. Don't ask me any more questions now. Look here, you'd better go round to Hans Place this morning and stay there to lunch. Aunt Mary's in London, I know. Go round early, so as you can catch her. I shall go straight to the station from the City. Meet me for the 4.50. I'll take your tickets."

"But what about RenÉ?" she asked. "Aren't you going to let him see me, when you've talked to him?"

He was in for it now. His tone was harder than he meant it to be as he said: "In any case, B, I'm not going to let him see you for six months. I've made up my mind about that. And there's to be no engagement either. He won't expect that. You must make yourself happy at home."

"Daddy darling!" Her tone was one of pained and surprised expostulation. She seemed such a child as she looked at him out of her wide eyes that again he recoiled from hurting her.

"Six months is nothing," he said. "If you can't wait six months, B——"

He couldn't finish. It seemed mean to give her to understand that this would be his sole stipulation, when he was going to do all he could to stop her marrying Lassigny at all. But neither could he tell her that.

She was silent for a time. Then she said with a deep sigh: "I was afraid you'd say something of the sort. You're a hard old Daddy. But I made up my mind coming down in the train that I wouldn't go against you. I love RenÉ so much that I don't mind waiting for him—if it isn't too long." Another little pause, and another deep sigh. "I've been frightfully happy the last two days. But somehow I didn't think it could last—quite like that."

She saw him out of the house later on. As she put up her face to be kissed, she said: "You do love your little daughter, don't you? You won't do anything to make her unhappy."

He walked to the end of Sloane Street and took a taxi. His mind was greatly disturbed. B had behaved beautifully. She had bowed to his decision with hardly a word of protest, and he knew well enough by the look on her face when she had asked him her last question what it had cost her to do so. It was impossible to take refuge in the thought that she couldn't love this fellow much, if she resigned herself so easily to doing without him for six months. She had resigned out of love for her father, and trust in him. It was beastly to feel that he had not yet told her everything, and that her faith in him not to make her unhappy—at least in the present—was unfounded. Again he felt himself undecided. But what could he do? How was it possible that she could judge of a man of Lassigny's type. Her love for him was pure and innocent. What was his love for her?

Well, he would find that out. The fellow should have his chance. He would not take it for granted that he had just taken a fancy—the latest of many—to a pretty face, and the charm and freshness of a very young girl; and since she happened to be of the sort that he could marry, was willing to gain possession of her in that way.

Lassigny was announced a little after twelve o'clock. His card was brought in: "Marquis de Clermont-Lassigny," in letters of print, all on a larger scale than English orthodoxy dictates. His card was vaguely distasteful to Grafton.

But when he went in to him, in the old-fashioned parlour reserved for visitors, he could not have told, if he had not known, that he was not an Englishman. His clothes were exactly 'right' in every particular. His dark moustache was clipped to the English fashion. His undoubted good looks were not markedly of the Latin type.

The two men shook hands, Lassigny with a smile, Grafton without one.

"You had my letter?" Lassigny asked.

"Yes," said Grafton, motioning him to a chair and taking one himself.

"It ought to have been written," said Lassigny, "before I spoke to Beatrix. But I trust you will understand it was not from want of respect to you that it wasn't. I have come now to ask your permission—to affiance myself to your daughter."

"I wish you hadn't," said Grafton, looking at him with a half-smile. He couldn't treat this man whom he had last seen as a welcome guest in his own house as the enemy he had since felt him to be.

Lassigny made a slight gesture with shoulders and hands that was not English. "Ah," he said, "she is very young, and you don't want to lose her. She said you would feel like that. I shouldn't want to lose her myself if she were my daughter. But I hope you will give her to me, all the same. I did not concern myself with business arrangements in my letter, but my lawyers——"

"Oh, we haven't come to talking about lawyers yet," Grafton interrupted him. "Look here, Lassigny; Beatrix is hardly more than a child; you ought not to have made love to her without at least coming to me first. You wouldn't do it in your own country, you know."

He had not meant to say that, or anything like it. But it was very difficult to know what to say.

"In my own country," said Lassigny "—but you must remember that I am only half French—one makes love, and one also marries. The two things don't of necessity go together. But I have known England for a long enough time to prefer the English way."

This was exactly the opening that Grafton wanted, but had hardly expected to be given in so obvious a way.

"Exactly so!" he said, leaning forward a little, with his arm on the table by his side. "You marry and you make love, and the two things don't go together. Well, with us they do go together; and that's why I won't let my daughters marry anybody but Englishmen, if I can help it."

Lassigny looked merely surprised. "But what do you think I meant?" he asked. "I love Beatrix. I love her with the utmost respect. I pay her all the honour I can in asking her to be my wife."

"And how many women have you loved before?" asked Grafton. "And how many are you going to love afterwards?"

Lassigny recoiled, with a dark flush on his face. "But do you want to insult me?" he asked.

"Look here, Lassigny," said Grafton again. "We belong to two different nations. I'm not going to pick my words, or disguise my meaning, out of compliment to you. It's far too serious. You must take me as an Englishman. You know enough about us to be able to do it."

"Well!" said Lassigny, grudgingly, after a pause. "You asked me a question. You asked me two questions. I think they are not the questions that one gentleman ought to ask of another. It should be enough that I pay honour to the one I love. My name is old, and has dignity. I have——"

"Oh, we needn't go into that," Grafton interrupted him. "We treat as equals there, with the advantage on your side, if it's anywhere."

"But, pardon me; we must go into it. It is essential. What more can I do than to offer my honourable name to your daughter? It means much to me. If I honour it, as I do, I honour her."

"I know you honour her, in your way. It isn't our way. I ask you another question of the sort you say one gentleman ought not to ask of another. Should you consider it dishonouring your name, or dishonouring the woman you've given it to, to make love to somebody else, after you've been married a year or two, if the fancy takes you?"

Lassigny rose to his feet. "Mr. Grafton," he said, "I don't understand you. I think it is you who are dishonouring your own daughter, whom I love, and shall always love."

Grafton, without rising, held up a finger at him. "How am I dishonouring her?" he asked with insistence. "Tell me why you say I'm dishonouring her."

Lassigny looked down at him. "To me," he said slowly, "she is the most beautiful and the sweetest girl on the earth. Don't you think so too? I thought you did."

Grafton rose. "You've said it; it's her beauty," he said more quickly. "If she loses that,—as she will lose it with her youth,—she loses you. I'm not going to let her in for that kind of disillusionment."

Lassigny was very stiff now, and entirely un-English in manner, and even in appearance. "Pardon me, Mr. Grafton, for having misunderstood your point of view. If it is a Puritan you want for your daughter I fear I am out of the running. I withdraw my application to you for her hand."

"That's another thing," said Grafton, as Lassigny turned to leave him. "I wouldn't let a daughter of mine marry a Catholic."

Lassigny went out, without another word.