But it was not a case, at least as far as Caroline was concerned.
Young George, commonly called Bunting, arrived home in the week before Easter. He was full of excitement at the new state of affairs, from which he anticipated a more enjoyable life than had hitherto fallen to his lot, though he had spent the greater part of his holidays either in the country houses of relations or in the country with his own family. But to have a home of one's own in the country, to which one could invite chosen friends, with a horse of one's own, kennel facilities, games to be found or invented immediately outside the premises, and all the sport that the country afforded ready to hand—this was far better than staying in other people's houses in the country, pleasant as that had been, and certainly far better than being confined to a house in London, which presented no attractions whatever except in the one item of plays to be seen.
He arrived just in time for lunch, and could hardly give himself time to eat it, so anxious was he to explore. He disappeared immediately afterwards, with Barbara, and was seen at intervals hurrying here and there during the afternoon, an active eager figure in his grey flannel suit and straw hat, and one upon which his elder sisters looked with pride and pleasure.
"Itisjolly to have him," said Caroline, as he ran past them, sitting out in the garden, on his way towards the fish ponds, carrying a net for some purpose that seemed to him of the utmost importance for the moment, and accompanied by Barbara and four dogs.
"The darling!" said Beatrix affectionately. She and Caroline had done their best to spoil him since his earliest years, and were inclined to look upon him now as a pet and a plaything, though his independence of mind and habit somewhat discouraged the attitude.
He and Barbara put in an appearance at tea-time, rather warm, rather dishevelled, but entirely happy. They were going through one of those spells of weather which sometimes seem to have strayed from June into April, when leaf and bud are expanding almost visibly under the influence of the hot sun, and promise and fulfilment are so mixed that to turn from one to the other is to get one of the happiest sensations that nature affords. A broad gravel path ran alongside the southeast corner of the house, ending in a yew-enclosed space furnished with white-painted seats round a large table. Here tea was set in shelter from sun and wind, and within sight of some of the quiet beauty of the formal garden, which the gay-coloured flowers of spring were already turning into a place of delight. Even Young George, not yet of an age to be satisfied with horticultural beauty, said that it was jolly, as he looked round him after satisfying the first pangs of appetite, and did not immediately rush away to moreactive pleasures when he had satisfied the remainder of them.
There was, indeed, a great deal to talk about, in the time that could be spared for talk. A great deal had to be told to this sympathetic bunch of sisters about his own experiences, and amusement to be extracted from them as to theirs.
Every family has its own chosen method of intercourse. That of the Graftons was to encourage one another to humour of observation and expression. When one or another of them was 'in form' they had as appreciative an audience among the rest as they could have gained from their warmest admirers outside. Young George occasionally gave bright examples of the sort of speech that was encouraged among them, and was generously applauded when he did so, not only because his sisters loved and admired him so much, but because it was gratifying to see him expanding to the pains they had taken with his education.
"There's a bloke near here who came last half," he said, when he had given them various pieces of intelligence which he thought might interest them. "His name's Beckley. I didn't know him very well till we came down in the train together, but he's rather a sportsman; he asked a ticket collector at Westhampton Junction to telegraph to his people that the train was late, but he hoped to be in time for his uncle's funeral. Do you know his people?"
"The Beckleys! Oh, yes, they live at Feltham Hall," said Caroline. "Mrs. Beckley and Vera calledlast week, and the Dragon and I called back. Vera told me about Jimmy. They find him difficult to cope with. They don't adore him as much as we do you, Bunting."
"He doesn't adorethemmuch," said Young George. "He told me that it was a bore having a lot of sisters, and he'd swop the lot for a twin brother."
"Odious little beast!" said Beatrix. "Why atwinbrother?"
"Oh, because he says he's the nicest fellow himself that he knows, and he'd like to have somebody of the same sort to do things with. He's really a comic bloke. I'm sure you'll like him. I expect he'll be over here pretty often. I don't suppose he really meant it about his sisters."
"Then he oughtn't to have said it, just for the sake of being funny," said Caroline. "I hope you weren't led into saying that yours were a bore, Bunting."
"No," said Young George. "I said you weren't bad sorts, and I thought he'd like you all right when he saw you. He said he'd come over some time and make an inspection."
"We'll inspecthimwhen he does come," said Barbara. "The Beckley girls are rather bread and buttery. They've got pigtails and a Mademoiselle, and go for walks in the country. The Dragon and I met them once, and we had a little polite conversation before they agreed to go their way and we went ours."
"Barbara dear, I don't think you should get into the way of criticising everybody," said Miss Waterhouse."I thought they were particularly nice girls."
"Yes, darling, you would," said Barbara. "If I wore a pigtail and saidau revoirinstead of good-bye, you'd think I was a particularly nice girl. But I'm sure you wouldn't love me as much as you do."
"Vera isn't bread and buttery," said Caroline, "though she's rather quiet. Jimmy seems to have all the high spirits of the family. I told her we'd deal with him if she sent him over here. We'd broken Bunting in, and we'd break him in for her."
"Any other nice people about to play with?" asked Bunting. "I suppose you've got to know them all now."
"I wrote to you about the Breezy Bills and the Zebras, and Lord Salisbury," said Barbara. "I wonder Lord Salisbury isn't here. He generally looks in about tea-time,—or lunch-time, or dinner-time."
"Barbara darling, you mustn't get into the way of exaggerating," said Miss Waterhouse.
"And I told you about Francis Parry bringing the Pembertons over," said Caroline, "and about Bertie taking a fancy to B."
"Beautiful bountiful Bertie!" said Young George, by way of comment.
"He came over again," said Beatrix, "and wanted to lay out golf links for us. He said he should be down for a week at Easter and it would give him something to do. I am sure he is an admirer—the first I've had. Bunting darling, I'm really grown up at last."
"You'll have lots more, old girl," said Young George loyally. "Now I'm getting on a bit myself, and see other fellows' sisters, I can tell you you're a good-looking crowd. Barbara's the most plain-headed, but she's better than the average. She only wants a bit of furnishing out. Who else have you seen?"
"Lady Mansergh from Wilborough," said Caroline. "We think she must have a past, because her hair is so very golden, and she speaks with a slight Cockney accent."
"And because Lord Salisbury disapproves of her," added Beatrix.
"Lord Salisbury disapproves of everybody," said Barbara. "He wants to keep us to himself. I'm his little sunbeam, you know, Bunting. I'm going to help decorate the church for Easter."
"We are all going to do that," said Miss Waterhouse, "and Mr. Mercer is quite justified in asking for that sort of help from us. You should not get into the way of criticising everything he does, Barbara darling."
"She always sticks up for him, because she can't abide him," said Barbara. "I liked Lady Mansergh. She was very affectionate. She patted my cheek and said it did her good to see such nice pretty girls about the place. She said it to me, so you see, Bunting, I'm not so plain-headed as you think. If ever Caroline and B are removed, by marriage or death, you'll see how I shall shine."
"Barbara dear, don't talk about death in that unfeeling way," said Miss Waterhouse. "It is not pretty at all."
Old Jarvis came out of the house at that moment followed by the Vicar, whom he announced by name as solemnly as if he had never seen him before. Jarvis did not like the Vicar, and adopted towards him an air of impregnable respect, refusing to be treated as a fellow human being, and giving monosyllabic answers to his attempts at conversation as he preceded him in stately fashion on his numerous calls to the morning-room, which was seldom used except just before dinner, or the drawing-room, which was never used at all. From the first he had never permitted him "just to run up and find the young ladies," or to dispense with any formality that he could bind him to, though Worthing he always received with a smiling welcome, accepted and returned his words of greeting, and took him straight up to the long gallery if the family was there, or told him if they were in the garden. The morning-room opened into the garden, and the Vicar, hearing voices outside, had followed him out. Jarvis was extremely annoyed with himself that he had not shown him into the drawing-room, which was on the other side of the house, but did not allow his feelings to appear.
The Vicar came forward with an air of proprietary friendship. "Tea out of doors in April!" he said. "What an original family you are, to be sure! Ah, my young friend, I think I can guess whoyouare."
"Young George, commonly known as Bunting," saidBarbara by way of introduction. None of them ever showed him what desolation his visits brought them, and in spite of signs to the contrary that would not have escaped a man of less self-sufficiency he still considered himself as receiving a warm welcome at the Abbey whenever he chose to put in an appearance.
Young George blinked at his method of address, but rose and shook hands with him politely. The Vicar put his hand on his shoulder and gave him a little shake. "We must be friends, you and I," he said. "I like boys, and it isn't so very long since I was one myself, though I dare say I seem a very old sort of person to all you young people."
Young George blinked again. "What an appalling creature!" was the comment he made up for later use. But he did not even meet Barbara's significant look, and stood aside for the visitor to enter the circle round the table.
"Now, young lady, if I'm not too late for a cup of tea," said the Vicar, seating himself by Caroline, after he had shaken hands all round with appropriate comment, "I shall be glad of it. You always have such delicious teas here. I'm afraid I'm sometimes tempted to look in more often than I should otherwise on that account alone."
"Why didn't you bring Mrs. Mercer?" asked Miss Waterhouse. "We haven't seen her for some days."
Miss Waterhouse hardly ever failed to suggest Mrs. Mercer as his expected companion when he put in his appearances at tea-time. It was beginning to occur tohim that Miss Waterhouse was something of the Dragon that he had heard his young friends call her, and had once playfully called her himself, though without the success that he had anticipated from his pleasantry. He was inclined to resent her presence in the family circle of which she seemed to him so unsuitable a member. He prided himself upon getting on so well with young people, and these young Graftons were so easy to get on with, up to a point. The point would have been passed and that intimacy which he always just seemed to miss with them would have been his if it had not always been for this stiff unsympathetic governess. She was always there and always took part in the conversation, and always spoilt it, when he could have made it so intimate and entertaining. Miss Waterhouse had to be treated with respect, though. He had tried ignoring her, as the governess, who would be grateful for an occasional kindly word; but it had not worked. She refused to be ignored, and he could hardly ever get hold of the girls, really to make friends, without her.
"Well, I was on my way home," he said. "I have been visiting since lunch-time. I have been right to the far end of the parish to see a poor old woman who is bedridden, but so good and patient that she is a lesson to us all." He turned to Caroline. "I wonder if you would walk up to Burnt Green with me some afternoon and see her. I was telling her about you, and I know what pleasure it would give her to see a bright young face like yours. I'm sure, if you onlysat by her bedside and talked to her it would do her good. She issolonely, poor old soul!"
He spoke very earnestly. Caroline looked at him with dislike tingeing her expression, though she was not aware of it. But Miss Waterhouse replied, before she could do so. "If you will tell us her name and where to find her, Mr. Mercer, we shall be glad to go and see her sometimes."
He gave the required information, half-unwillingly, as it seemed; but this lady was so very insistent in her quiet way. "Mollie Walter comes visiting with me sometimes," he said. "I don't say, you know, that sick people are not pleased to see their clergyman when he calls, but I am not too proud to say that a sympathetic young girl often does more good at a bedside than even the clergyman."
"I should think anybody would be pleased to see Mollie," said Beatrix. "If I were ill she is just the sort of person I should like to see."
"Better than the clergyman?" enquired the Vicar archly. "Now be careful how you answer."
Beatrix turned her head away indifferently. Young George, who was afflicted to the depths of his soul by the idea of this proffered intimacy, said, awkwardly enough but with intense meaning: "My sisters are not used to go visiting with clergymen, sir. I don't think my father would like it for them."
The Vicar showed himself completely disconcerted, and stared at Young George with open eyes and half-open mouth. The boy was cramming himself withbread and butter, and his face was red. With his tangled hair, and clothes that his late exertions had made untidy, he looked a mere child. But there was no mistaking his hostility, nor the awkward fact that here was another obstacle to desired intimacy with this agreeable family.
It was so very unexpected. The Vicar had thought himself quite successful, with his hand on his shoulder, and his few kindly words, in impressing himself upon this latest and very youthful member of it as a desirable friend of the family. And behold! he had made an enemy. For Young George's objection to his sisters' visiting with clergymen in general was so obviously intended to be taken as an objection to their visiting with this one. That was made plain by his attitude.
Miss Waterhouse solved the awkward situation. "Visiting sick people in the country is not like visiting people in the slums of London, Bunting dear. Mr. Mercer would let us know if there were any danger of infection. It would be better, though, I think, if we were to pay our visits separately."
There was to be no doubt about that, at any rate. Miss Waterhouse was hardly less annoyed than Young George at the invitation that had been given, and its impertinence was not to be salved over however much it was to be desired that dislike should not be too openly expressed.
Nor did Caroline or Beatrix wish to be made the subject of discussion. They were quite capable of staving off inconvenient advances, and preferred to do it bylighter methods than those used by Young George, and to get some amusement out of it besides. Caroline laughed, and said: "My darling infant, if we get measles or chicken-poxyoumight catch them too, and then you wouldn't have to go back to school so soon."
Young George had made his protest, and it had cost him something to do it. His traditions included politeness towards a guest, and he would only have broken them under strong provocation. So, although he was still feeling a blind hatred against this one, he did not reply that his objection was not influenced by the fear of infectious disease, but mumbled instead that he did not want to miss the first days of the summer half.
The Vicar had somewhat recovered himself. His self-conceit made it difficult for him to accept a snub, however directly administered, if it could be made to appear in any way not meant for a snub. "Well, it is true that one has to be a little careful about infection sometimes," he said. "But I know of none anywhere about at present. I have to risk it myself in the course of my duty, but I am always careful about it for others. I had to warn Mollie off certain cottages, when she first came here. She has been such a willing little helper to me since the beginning, and one has to look after one's helpers, you know."
He had quite recovered himself now. Mollie, who had been so pleased to be asked to do what he would like these girls to do, and was obviously not to be criticised, in his position, for asking them to do, was a great stand-by. "I really don't know how I got onbefore Mollie came," he said. "And Mrs. Mercer feels just the same about her. She has been like a daughter to us."
"She's a dear," said Beatrix. "She has half promised to come and see us in London, when we go up. She has actually hardly ever been to London at all."
"It'smostkind of you to take such an interest in her," said the Vicar. "But you mustn't spoil her, you know. I'm not sure that she wouldn't be rather out of place in the sort of life thatyoulead in London. She isn't used to going about, and hasn't been brought up to it. If you are kind to her when you are down here, and ask her to come and see you now and then, but don't let her make herself a burden on you, you will be doing her a great kindness, and all that can be required of you."
There was a slight pause. "We look upon Mollie as our friend," said Miss Waterhouse, "and one does not find one's friends a burden."
They sat on round the tea-table, and conversation languished. The Vicar made tentative advances towards a stroll round the garden, but they were not taken up. Young George was dying to get away to his activities, but did not like to make a move, so sat and fidgeted instead, his distaste for the Vicar growing apace.
At last the Vicar got up to take his leave. Young George accompanied him to the gate which led from the garden into the road, and opened it for him. "Well good-bye, my young friend," said the Vicar, his handagain on the boy's shoulder. "I hope you'll have an enjoyable holiday here. We must do all we can to make it amusing for you."
"Thank you, sir," said young George, looking down on the ground, and the Vicar took himself off, vaguely dissatisfied, but not blaming himself at all for any awkwardness that had peeped through during his visit.
Young George went back to the tea-table, his cheeks flaming. "What abeast!" he said hotly. "What acad! Why do you have a creature like that here?"
"Darling old boy!" said Caroline soothingly. "He's not worth making a fuss about. We can deal with him all right. He won't come here so much when he finds out we don't want him. But we must be polite as long as he does come."
"Fancy him having the cheek to ask you to go visiting with him!" said Young George. "I'm jolly glad I let him know I wouldn't stand it. I know Dad wouldn't, and when he's not here I'm the man who has to look after you."
Beatrix caught hold of him and kissed him. "We love being looked after by you, Bunting," she said. "It's jolly to have a brother old enough to do it. But don't fash yourself about Lord Salisbury, dear. We get a lot of fun out of his efforts."
"You mustn't quarrel with him, Bunting," said Barbara. "If you do, he'll leave off calling me a sunbeam."
"If I hear him doing that," said Bunting, "I shall tell him what Ireallythink of him."
Whitsuntide, which fell in June that year, found a large party assembled at the Abbey. Grafton had brought down a few friends every Friday since Easter, but this was the first time that the house had been full.
He had enjoyed those week-ends at Abington more consciously than he had enjoyed anything for years. And yet there was 'nothing to do,' as he was careful to inform everybody whom he asked down. He would have hesitated himself, before he had bought Abington, over spending two and sometimes three and four days in the week in a country house, in late spring and early summer, with no very good golf links near, no river or sea, nothing, specially interesting in the way of guests, or elaborate in the preparations made to entertain them. While the children had been growing up he had paid occasional visits to quiet country houses, in this way, and since Caroline had left the schoolroom they had sometimes paid them together. But once or twice in the year, outside the shooting season, had been quite enough. There were more amusing things to be done, and he had been so accustomed to skimming the cream off every social pleasure that he had always been on the lookout for amusing things to be done, though hehad not cared for them when he did them much more than he enjoyed other parts of his easy life.
It was all too much on the same level. Special enjoyment only comes by contrast. Grafton's work interested him, and he did not do enough of it ever to make him want a holiday for the sake of a holiday, and seldom enough on any given day to make him particularly glad to leave it and go home. He liked leaving it, to go home or to his club for a rubber. But then he also rather liked leaving his home to go down to the City, in the mornings. When he had been to the City for four or five days running, he liked to wake up and feel he was not going there. If he had been away for some time, he was pleased to go back to it, though perhaps he would have been equally pleased to do something else, as long as it was quite different from what he had been doing. He liked dining out; he also liked dining at home. If he had dined alone with his family two or three times running, he liked having guests; if he had dined in company four or five times running, he preferred to dine alone with his family. It was the same all through. The tune to which his life was played was change: constant little variations of the same sort of tune. He would never have said that he was not satisfied with it; it was the life he would have chosen to go back to at any time, if he had been cut off from it, and there was indeed no other kind of life that he could not have had if he had chosen to change it. But it held no great zest. The little changes were too frequent, and had becomein course of time no more than a series of crepitations in a course of essential sameness.
His buying of Abington Abbey had presented itself to him at first as no more than one of these small changes which made up his life. Although he had had it in his mind to buy a country house for some years past, he had not exerted himself to find one, partly for fear that it would reduce the necessary amount of change. The London house was never a tie. You could leave it whenever you wished to. But a country house would make claims. It might come to be irksome to have to go to it, instead of going here, there, and everywhere, and if you forsook it too much it might reproach you. Other people's country houses would never do that.
But ownership had had an effect upon him that he would never have suspected. The feeling of home, which had hitherto centred entirely in his family, still centred there, but gained enormously in richness from the surroundings in which he had placed them. The thousand little interests of the place itself, and of the country around it, were beginning to close in on them and to colour them afresh; they stood out of it more, and gained value from their setting. His own interests in it, too, were increasing, and included many things in which he had never thought of himself as taking any keen interest. He did not, as yet, care much for details of estate management, and left all that to Worthing, who was a little disappointed that a man who filled a big position in the financial world was not prepared tomake something of a hobby of what to him was the difficult part of his work, and ease his frequent anxieties about it by his more penetrating insight. But Grafton did not leave his bank parlour in Lombard Street on Friday afternoon in order to spend Saturday morning in his Estate Office in Abington. Nor did he go far afield for his pleasures. The nearest golf links worth his playing over, who was used to the best, were ten miles away, which was nothing in a car, but he preferred to send his guests there, if any of them wanted to play golf, and stay at home himself, or play a round on the nine-hole park course at Wilborough. He took interest in the rearing of game, but that was about the only thing that took him even about his own property. For the present, at least, in the spring and early summer the house and the garden were enough for him, and a cast or two in the lengthening evenings over one or other of the pools into which the river that meandered through the park widened here and there.
Nothing to do! But there was an infinity of little things to do, which filled his days like an idle but yet active and happy dream. The contrasts of the quiet country life were only more minute than those which made the wider more varied life blend into a somewhat monotonous whole. They were there, to give it interest and charm, but they seemed to relieve it of all monotony. The very samenesswasits charm. It was enough to wake up in this quiet spacious beautiful house lapped in the peace of its sylvan remoteness, and tofeel that the day was to be spent there, it mattered not how. When the time came to leave it, he left it with regret, and when he came back to it, it was to take up its life at the point at which he had left it. He had thought of it only as a holiday house—only as a very occasional holiday house until the autumn should make it something more,—and that a succession of guests would be almost a necessity on his week-end visits, if they were to get the pleasant flavour out of it. But he had arranged for no big party of them during two months of regular visits, and on the whole had enjoyed it more on the days when he had been alone with the family.
He had never liked his family so much as in these days when they were his constant and sometimes sole companions. Hitherto, in London, except for their occasional quiet evenings together, it had always meant going out to do something, and until lately, since Caroline had grown up, it had generally meant inventing something to go out for. In the main, his pursuits had been other than theirs. With Young George, especially, it had been sometimes almost irksome to take the responsibility of finding amusement for him. And yet he loved his little son, and wanted to have him grow up as his companion.
Well, Young George wanted no better one; there was no necessity to find amusement for him at Abington. Abington, with all that went with it,wasamusement for both of them, every hour of the day. Young George would follow him about everywhere, chatteringeffusively all the time, completely happy and at ease with him. He had reached the age at which a boy wants his play to be the play of a man, and wants a man to play it with. When Grafton was up in London he immersed himself in more childish pursuits, with Barbara as his companion, or Jimmy Beckley, who was a constant visitor during the Easter holidays. But his best days were those on which his father was there, and on those days he would hardly let him out of his sight. Grafton felt quite sad when he went back to school. Previously he had felt a trifle of relief when the end of the holidays came.
Miss Waterhouse and Barbara had stayed at Abington ever since they had moved down there. Caroline had only been up to London once for the inside of the week, although the season was now in full swing, and it had never been intended that they should not be chiefly in London until the end of it. The time for moving up had been put off and put off. The country was so delightful in the late spring and early summer. After Whitsuntide perhaps they would move up to London. But it had never been definitely settled that they should do so, and hitherto Caroline had seemed quite content to miss all her parties, and to enjoy her days in the garden and in the country, and her evenings in the quiet house.
Beatrix had been presented, and had been hard at it in London, staying with her aunt, Lady Handsworth, and enjoying herself exceedingly. But she had come down to Abington twice with her father. Abington washome now, and weighed even against the pleasures of a first London season.
The Whitsuntide guests were Lord Handsworth, Grafton's brother-in-law, with his wife and daughter, a girl of about Caroline's age, Sir James and Lady Grafton, the Marquis de Clermont-Lassigny, the Honourable Francis Parry, and one or two more out of that army of Londoners who are to be found scattered all over the country houses of England on certain days of the week at certain times of the year.
Lassigny was one of those men who appear very English when they are in England and very French when they are in France. He was a handsome man, getting on in the thirties. He had been attached to the French Embassy in London, but had inherited wealth from an American mother, and had relinquished a diplomatic career to enjoy himself, now in Paris, now in London, and sometimes even in his fine château in Picardy, which had been saved for him by his mother's dollars. It was supposed that he was looking out for an English wife, if he could find one to his taste, but his pursuit during many visits to England spread over some years had not been very arduous. He had danced a good deal with Caroline during her two seasons; and her aunt, who had taken her about, as she now took Beatrix, had rather expected that something might come of it. Caroline had always thought she knew better. Her virginal indifference to the approaches of men had not prevented her from appreciating the signs of special devotion, and she had seen none in Lassigny. He hadbeen very friendly, and she liked the friendship of men. It would hardly have been too much to say of her, at the age of twenty-one, and after two full seasons and the months of country house visiting that had passed with them, that she was still in the schoolgirl state of thinking that anything approaching love-making 'spoilt things.' She was rather too experienced to hold that view in its entirety, but it was hers in essence; she had never wanted the signs of attraction in any man to go beyond the point at which they made agreeable the friendship. It was the friendship she liked; the love that might be lurking beneath it she was not ready for, though it might add a spice to the friendship if it were suspected but did not obtrude itself.
It had been so with Francis Parry. They were very good friends, and he admired her; that she knew well enough. But she did not want him to make it too plain. If he had done so she would have had to bethink herself, and she did not want to do that. With Lassigny she had not felt like that. He was older than Francis, and more interesting. Young men of Francis's age and upbringing were so much alike; you knew exactly what to talk to them about, and it was always the same. But Lassigny, in spite of his English appearance and English tastes, had other experiences, and to talk to him was to feel them even if they were not expressed. He had his own way of behaving too, which was not quite the same as that of a young Englishman. It was a trifle more formal and ceremonious. Caroline had the idea that he was watchingher, and as it were experimenting with her, under the guise of the pleasant intimacy that had grown up between them. If she proved to be what he wanted he might offer her marriage, perhaps before he should have taken any steps towards wooing her. It was interesting, even a little thrilling, to be on the edge of that unknown. But, unless he was quite unlike other men who had come within her experience, the impulsion from within had not come to him, after two years. She would have known if it had, or thought she would.
The Whitsuntide party mixed well. There were bridges in this family between youth and age, or middle-age; for Sir James Grafton, who was the oldest of them all, was not much over fifty, though he looked older. He was fond of his nieces, and they of him, and he did not feel the loss of his laboratory so acutely when he was in their company. Lord Handsworth was also a banker—a busy bustling man who put as much energy into his amusements as into his work. He was the only one of the party for whom it was quite necessary to provide outside occupation. Fortunately that was to be found on the Sandthorpe links, and he spent his three days there, with whoever was willing to accompany him. The rest 'sat about' in the gorgeous summer weather, played lawn games, went for walks and rides and drives, and enjoyed themselves in a lotus-eating manner. And in the evenings they assembled in the long gallery, played bridge and music, talked and laughed, and even read; for there was room enough init for Sir James to get away with a book, and enjoy seclusion at the same time as company.
Such parties as these make for intimacy. On Monday evening there was scarcely a member of it who did not feel some faint regret at the breaking up that was to come on the next morning, unless it was Lord Handsworth, who had exhausted the novelty of the Sandthorpe links. Worthing had come to dine, but the only other outside guest had been Bertie Pemberton. It was near midsummer, for Easter had been late that year. Most of them were in the garden, sitting in the yew arbour, or strolling about under a sky of spangled velvet.
Francis Parry was with Caroline. He had been with her a good deal during the last three days, and their friendship had taken a deeper tinge. She was a little troubled about it, and it was not by her wish that he and she found themselves detached from the group with which they had set out to stroll through the gardens.
They had all gone together as far as the lily pond. This was a new bit of garden-planning on a somewhat extensive scale; for Grafton had lost no time in taking up this fascinating country pursuit, and Caroline had busied herself over its carrying out. It was actually an entirely new garden of considerable size carved out of the park. The stone-built lily pond was finished, the turf laid, the borders dug and filled, the yews planted. It had been a fascinating work to carry out, but it had had to be done in a hurry at that time of the year, and hardly as yet gave any of the impressionthat even a winter's passing would have foreshadowed. It was led up to by a broad flagged path, and when the company had reached the pond most of them turned back and left it again.
But Francis Parry seemed more interested in it than the rest, and stayed where he was, asking questions of Caroline, who had answered most of them during earlier visits.
"I suppose this is really what has kept you down here, isn't it," he asked, "when you ought to have been amusing yourself in London?"
She laughed, and said: "I amuse myself better down here. I love being in the country. I don't miss London a bit?'
"I like the country too," he said, "even in the summer."
Caroline laughed again. "'Evenin the summer'!" she repeated. "It's the best of all times."
"Oh, well, I know," he said. "It's more beautiful, and that's what you like about it, isn't it? It's what I like too. A night like this is heavenly. Let's stop here a few minutes and take it in. I suppose your beautiful stone seats are meant to be sat on, aren't they? We ought to do justice to your new garden."
"I'm afraid you're laughing at my new garden," said Caroline. "But perhaps it will do the poor thing good to be treated as if it were really grown up. Itwillbe lovely in a year or two, you know."
She moved across the grass, which even the light of the moon showed not yet to have settled into smoothunbroken turf, and sat down on a stone bench in a niche of yew. The separate trees of which it was composed were as large as could have been safely transplanted, but they had not yet come together, and were not tall enough to create the effect of seclusion, except in the eye of faith. Caroline laughed again. "Itoughtto be rather romantic," she said, "but I'm afraid it isn't quite yet."
"I should think any garden romantic with you in it," said the young man, taking his seat by her side.
"Thanks," she said lightly. "I do feel that I fit in. But I think you had better wait a year or two to see how all this is going to fitme. Come down for Whitsuntide in three years' time, when the hedges have grown up. Then I will sit here and make a real picture for you."
She made an entrancing picture as it was, her white frock revealing the grace of her slim body, the moon silvering her pretty fair hair and resting on the delicate curves of her cheek and her neck. The yews were tall enough to give her their sombre background, and a group of big trees behind them helped out the unfinished garden picture.
"It has altered you, you know, already," said Francis, rather unexpectedly.
"What has altered me? Living in a garden? That's what I've been doing for the last few weeks."
"Yes. Living in a garden. Living in the country. You're awfully sweet as a country girl, Caroline."
"A dewy English girl. That's what B and I saidwe should be when we came down here. I'm awfully glad you've seen it so soon. Thanks ever so much, Francis."
There was a slight pause. Then the young man said in his quiet well-bred voice: "I've never been quite sure whether I was in love with you or not. Now I know I am, and have been all along."
Now that it had come—what she had felt coming for the last three days, and had instinctively warded off—she felt quite calm and collected. She approved of this quiet way of introducing a serious subject. There had been one or two attempted introductions of the same subject which had been more difficult to handle. But it ought to be talked over quietly, between two sensible people, who liked one another, and understood one another. They might possibly come to an agreement, or they might not. If they didn't, they could still go on being friends. That it was somewhat lacking in romance did not trouble her. The less romance had to do with the business of marriage the more likely it was to turn out satisfactorily; provided always that there was genuine liking and some community of taste. That was Caroline's view of marriage, come to after a good deal of observation. Since her first season she had always intended to choose with her head. Her heart, she thought, would approve of her choice if she put her head first. The head, she had noticed, did not always approve afterwards when the heart had been allowed to decide. But love, of course, must not be left out of account in marriage. With the girl it couldbe safely left to spring out of liking; with the man it might do the same, but he must attain to it before he made his proposal. Francis seemed to have done that, and she knew him very well, and liked him. If she must be proposed to, she would prefer it to be in exactly this way—perhaps with the yew hedges grown a little more, and the squares of turf come closer together. But it would do very well as it was, with the fountain splashing in the lily pond, and the moonlight falling on the roofs and windows of the old house, which could be seen through the broad vista of the formal garden.
"I hadn't meant to marry just yet," Francis made his confession, as she did not immediately reply to him. "But for some time I've thought that when I did I should want to marry you—if you'd have me. Do you think you could, Caroline?"
"I don't know yet," said Caroline directly. "Why hadn't you meant to marry just yet?"
"Oh, well; I'm only twenty-seven, you know. I shouldn't want to marry yet for thesakeof being married. Still, everything's changed when you're really in love with a girl. Then youdowant to get married. You begin to see there's nothing like it. If I'd felt about you as I feel about you now, when I first knew you, I should have wanted to marry you then."
"I think I was only fifteen when we first knew each other."
"Was that all? Yes, it was when I'd just come down from Oxford. Well, I liked you then, and I've gone on liking you ever since. You were awfully attractivewhen you were fifteen. I believe I did fall in love with you then. You liked me too rather, didn't you?"
"Yes, I did. It was that day up the river. I was rather shy, as B and I were the only girls who weren't grown up. But you talked to us both, and were very nice. Oh, yes, Francis, I've always liked you."
"Well then, won't you try and love me a bit? I do love you, you know. If I've kept a cool head about it, it's because I think that's the best way, with a girl you're going to spend your life with—if you have the luck—until you're quite certain sheisthe girl you want. As a matter of fact there's never been another with me. If I haven't come forward, as they say in books, it hasn't been because I've ever thought about anybody else."
It was all exactly as it should have been.Hehad chosen with his head too, and now his heart had stepped in just at the right time, to corroborate his choice. And she did like him; there had never been anything in him that she hadn't liked, since that first day when in all his Leander smartness, among all the young men who had devoted themselves to the young women of the party, he had been the one who had made himself agreeable to the two half-fledged girls. She liked too his saying that there had never been anybody else. The first statement that he hadn't intended to marry just yet had chilled her a trifle, though there had been nothing in it to conflict with her well-thought-out theory.
"It's very nice of you to say that," she said. "I haven't thought about anybody else either. We should both be glad of that afterwards, if we did marry."
"Then you will say yes," he said eagerly, drawing suddenly a little nearer to her.
She drew away quickly and instinctively, and rose from the seat. "Oh, I haven't said so yet," she said. "I must think a lot about it first. But thank you very much for asking me, Francis. It's very sweet of you. Now I think we'd better be going in."
He rose too. She looked lovely standing there in the moonlight, in all her virginal youth and grace. If he had put his arm round her, and pleaded for his answer! His senses bade him take her, and keep her for his own—the sweetest thing to him on God's earth at that moment. But he wouldn't frighten her; he must wait until she was ready. Then, if she'd give herself to him, he would be completely happy. By the use of his brains he was becoming a very good financier, though still young. But it is doubtful whether his brains guided him aright in this crisis of his life.
"I'm very disappointed that you can't say yes now," he said, his voice trembling a little. "I do love you, Caroline—awfully."
She liked him better at that moment than she had ever liked him before. The man of the world, composed of native adaptability and careful training, had given place to the pleading youth, who had need of her. But she had no need of him, for the moment at least. "Imustthink it over, Francis," she said, almost pleadingin her turn. "Don't let's be in a hurry. We're both such sensible people."
"I don't know that I feel in a particularly sensible mood just at present," he said with a wry smile. "But I'm not going to rush you, my dear. I shall give you a week or two to think it over, and then I shall come and ask you again. God knows, I want you badly enough."
All the guests departed on Tuesday morning with the exception of Sir James and Lady Grafton. It was a surprising compliment on the part of Sir James that he should have proposed to stay over another day. He explained it by saying that he hadn't quite got the hang of the library yet. The library was well furnished with old books in which nobody had hitherto taken much interest. But Sir James did not, as a matter of fact, spend a great deal of his time there on the extra day that he had proposed to devote to it. He spent most of his time out of doors with one or other of his nieces, and although he carried a calf-bound volume of respectable size in either pocket of his coat he left them reposing there as far as could be seen.
"The dear old thing!" said his young and sprightly wife. "What he really likes is pottering about quietly with the children. They really are dears, George. I wish we saw more of them; but you never will bring them to Frayne. I suppose it's too dull for you."
"Well, it is rather dull," said Grafton, who was on the best of terms with his sister-in-law. "If James and I didn't meet in the City I should want to go and see him there sometimes, but——"
"Well, that's a nice speech!" exclaimed her ladyship. "You don't meetmein the City. But I'll forgive you. After all, it isn'tyouI want to see at Frayne—it's the children. They're growing up so nicely, George. You owe a lot to Miss Waterhouse. I've never seen two girls of Caroline's and Beatrix's ages who can do as much to make all sorts and ages of people enjoy themselves. James says the same. He didn't want to come here much, to a big party, but now you see you can't get him away. And dear little Barbara will be just the same. James adores Barbara, and it's awfully pretty to see her taking him about with her arm in his, and chattering about everything in earth and heaven. I wish we'd had some girls. The boys are darlings, of course, but they're not peaceful when they're growing up, and my dear old James loves peace."
"We all do," said Grafton. "That's why we love this place. It's quite changedmealready. When one of your boys is ready to come into the Bank I shall retire and become a country squire, of the kind that never steps outside his own house."
"Oh, no, you won't, George. James retires before you. I wish the boys were older. It's James's fault for not marrying at the proper age. However, if he'd done that he wouldn't have married me, for I was in the cradle at that time."
"They must have pretty big cradles where you come from," said Grafton.
She gave him a reproving pat on the sleeve; she likedthat kind of joke. "This is really a nicer place than Frayne," she said. "I don't wonder you've taken to it. It's hardly fair that the younger brother should have a nicer place than the elder. But I think now you've settled down in a house of your own, George, you ought to think of marrying again. I never thought you wanted it while you were a young man about town, but if you're going to change all your tastes and settle down in the country you will want a wife to look after things for you."
"I've got the children," he said shortly.
"My dear boy, you don't think you're going to keep them long, do you? It's a marvel to me that Caroline hasn't married already. She's been one of the prettiest of all the girls, and B is even prettier, if that's possible. You'll lose 'em both pretty soon, if I'm not very much mistaken."
He turned to her in some alarm. "What do you mean?" he asked. "There's nothing going on, is there?"
She laughed. "How blind men are," she said. "M. de Lassigny is head over ears in love with B."
"Oh, my dear Mary, what nonsense! Excuse my saying so, but it's such a short time since you were in the cradle."
"Very well, George. You may call it nonsense if you like. But you'll see."
"He's been a friend of Caroline's for the last two years. It was she who asked him down here. It would be her if it were anybody, but I know it isn't."
"You may know it isn't Caroline. I know it too. They're just friends. You can't know it isn't B, because it is."
"What makes you say so? He's been just like all the rest of them here. He's been with Caroline just as much as with B. Barbara too, I should say, and the other girls as well."
"That's his artfulness, George. You can't hide these things from a woman—at any rate if she has eyes in her head and knows how to use them. I'm interested in your girls, not having any of my own, so I do use my eyes. He may not be ready to declare himself yet, but he will, sooner or later."
"I should hate that, you know. I don't believe B would take it on for a moment either. Do you?"
"I don't know. If I thought I did I'd tell you so. But why should you hate it? He's just like an Englishman. And he's rich, with an old property and all that sort of thing. He isn't like an adventurer, with a title that comes from nobody knows where. He'd be a very good match. Why should you hate it?"
"I should hate one of the girls to marry a foreigner. I've never thought of such a thing. I don't want either of them to marry yet—certainly not my little B. I want them at home for a bit. I haven't had enough of them yet. We're all going to enjoy ourselves together here for a year or two. They like it as much as I do. Even B, who's enjoying herself in London, likes to come here best,—bless her. She's having her fling. I like 'em to do that; and they're not like other girls, alwayson the lookout for men. They make friends of them but they like their old father best, after all. It can't always be so, I know, but I'm not going to lose them yet awhile, Mary."
"Well, George, you're very lucky in your girls, I will say that; and you deserve some credit for it, too. You haven't left them to go their own way while you went yours, as lots of men in your position would have done. The consequence is they adore you. And they always will. But you can't expect to be first with them when their time comes. You've had Caroline now for two years since she's grown up, and——"
"Well, what about her? There's nobody head over heels in love withher, is there?"
"I don't know about head over heels. But Francis Parry is in love with her, and you'll have him proposing very shortly, if he hasn't done it already."
"Oh, my dear Mary, you're letting your matchmaking tendencies get the better of you. Now you relieve my mind—about B I mean. If there's no more in it than that!"
"Oh, I know what you think. They've been pals, and all that sort of thing, for years. If there had been more than that it would have come out long ago. Well, you'll see.Isay that it's coming out now. It does happen like that, you know, sometimes."
Grafton was inclined to doubt it. He liked Francis Parry, who would be just the right sort of match for Caroline besides, if it should take them in that sort of way, later on. But that sort of way did not includea sudden 'falling in love' at the end of some years' frank and free companionship, during which neither of them had been in the least inclined to pine at such times as they saw little of one another. They were both of them much too sensible. Their liking for one another gave the best sort of promise for happiness in married life, if they should, by and by, decide to settle down together. They had been friends for years and they would go on being friends, all their lives. The same could not be said for all married couples, nor perhaps even for the majority of them, who had begun by being violently in love with one another. That, at any rate, could hardly have happened within the last few days. Mary, who had certainly not fallen violently in love with James, though she was undoubtedly fond of him, and made him a very good wife, was over-sentimental in these matters, and had seen what she had wanted to see.
He had a slight shock of surprise, however, not altogether agreeable, when Caroline, during the course of the morning, told him of what had happened to her.
She linked her arm affectionately in his. "Come for a stroll, darling," she said. "It's rather nice to have got rid of everybody, and be just ourselves again, isn't it?"
She led him to the lily pond. Although everything was finished there now, and neither the yews nor the newly laid turf could have been expected to come together between their frequent visits, they went to look at it several times a day, just to see how it was gettingon. So there was no difficulty in drawing him there; and, as other members of the family were satisfied with less frequent inspection, they were not likely to be disturbed.
"Come and sit down," she said, when they had stood for some time by the pool, and discussed the various water-lilies that they had sunk there, tied up between the orthodox turfs. "I want to talk to you."
They sat down on the stone seat. "Talk away!" he said, taking a cigarette out of his case.
Caroline took cigarette and case away from him. "Darling," she said, "you didn't select it. In books they alwaysselecta cigarette, usually with care. I'll do it for you."
She gave him a cigarette, took his matchbox out of his pocket, and lit it for him. "I'm really only doing this to save time," she said. "I have a confession to make. The last time I sat on this seat I was proposed to."
"The devil!" exclaimed her father, staring at her.
"No, darling, not the devil. I'm not so bad as that. Don't be offensive to your little daughter—or profane."
"Who was it? Francis Parry?"
"Yes, darling. You've got it in one. It was last night. The moon was shining and the yews lookedalmostlike a real hedge. Rather a score for our garden, I think."
He took a draw at his cigarette and inhaled it. "Well, if that's the way you take it, I suppose you didn't accept him," he said.
Having taken the fence of introducing the subject, she became more serious. "No, I didn't accept him," she said. "But I didn't refuse him either. I wanted to talk to you about it first."
That pleased him. At this time of day one no longer expected to have the disposal of one's daughter's hand, or to be asked for permission to pay addresses to her, if the man who paid them was justified in doing so by his social and financial position, and probably even less so if he wasn't. But it was gratifying that his daughter should put his claims on her so high that she would not give her answer until she had consulted him about it first.
"Well, darling," he said, "I don't want you to marry anybody just yet. But Francis Parry is a very nice fellow. I'd just as soon you married him as anybody if you want to. Do you?"
"Perhaps I might," she said doubtfully. "I do like him. I think we should get on all right together." There was a slight pause. "He likes Dickens," she added.
Grafton did not smile. "Mary has just told me that you've suddenly fallen in love with one another," he said. It was not exactly what Mary had told him, but he was feeling a trifle sore with her for seeing something that he hadn't, and for another reason which he hadn't examined yet.
"Aunt Mary is too clever by half," said Caroline. "She couldn't have seen anything in me that hasn't always been there. But Francis did say he loved me.I suppose he had to, didn't he, Dad? No, I don't mean that. I mean he'd expect one to begin with that, wouldn't he?"
He was touched; he couldn't have told why, unless it was from some waft of memory from his own wooing, which had certainly begun with that. He put his arm round her and kissed her. "Do you love him?" he asked her.
She returned his kiss warmly. "Not half as much as I love you, darling old Daddy," she said. "I don't want to go away from you for a long time yet. Supposing I tell Francis that I like him very much, but I don't want to marry anybody yet. How would that do?"
"It seems to fit the bill," he said in a lighter tone. "No, don't get married yet, Cara. We're going to have a lot of fun here. It would break things up almost before they've begun. I say, is there anything between Lassigny and B?"
She laughed. "Has Aunt Mary seen that too?" she asked.
"She says she has. Why! haveyouseen it? Surely not!"
"To tell you the truth, I haven't looked very carefully. They like each other, I suppose, just as he and I like each other. He hasn't been any different to me; I think he's been as much with me as he has with her."
"Yes, but B herself, I mean. She wouldn't want to fall in love with a foreigner, would she?"
"How British you are, darling! I never think about M. de Lassigny as a foreigner."
"I do though. I should hate one of you girls to marry anybody not English. B doesn't like him in that way, does she?"
"I don't think so, dear. I don't think she likes anybody in that way yet. She's just like I was, when I first came out, enjoying herself frightfully and making lots of friends. He was one of the people I liked first of all. He's interesting to talk to. She likes lots of other men too. In fact she has talked to me about lots of them, but I don't think she's ever mentioned him—before he came here, I mean."
Whether that fact seemed quite convincing to Caroline or no, it relieved her father. "Oh, I don't suppose there's anything in it," he said. "His manners with women are a bit more elaborate than an Englishman's. I suppose that's what Mary has got hold of. I must say,Ididn't notice him paying any more attention to B than to you; or Barbara either, for that matter. Of course B is an extraordinarily pretty girl. She's bound to get a lot of notice. I hope she won't take up with anybody yet awhile though. I don't want to lose her. I don't want to lose any of you. Anyway, I should hate losing her to a Frenchman."
His fears were further reduced by Beatrix's treatment of him during that day, and when they went up to London together the next morning. She was very clinging and affectionate, and very amusing too. Surely no girl who was not completely heart-wholewould have been so light-hearted and merry over all the little experiences of life that her entry into the world was bringing her! And she hardly mentioned Lassigny's name at all, though there was scarcely one of the numerous acquaintances she had made whom she had not something to say about, and generally to make fun of. Her fun was never ill-natured, but everybody and everything presented itself to her in the light of her gay humour, and was presented to her audience in that light. She was far the wittiest of the three of them, and her bright audacities enchanted her father when she was in the mood for them, when her eyes danced and sparkled with mischief and her laugh rang out like music. He had never been able to think of Beatrix as quite grown up; she was more of a child to him even than Barbara, whom nobody could have thought of as grown up, or anywhere near it. It dismayed him to think of losing her, even if it should be to a man of whom he should fully approve. But, filling his eyes as she did with a sense of the sweet perfection of girlhood, he was wondering if it were possible that she of all the girls who would be married or affianced before the season was over would escape, even if there was nothing to be feared as to the particular attachment that had been put into his mind.
But though it might be impossible to think that she would tread her first gay measure without having hearts laid at her feet, it was quite possible to think of her as dancing through it without picking any of them up. In fact, she as good as told him that that was herattitude towards all the admiration she was receiving when she went up to fish with him in the evening, and was as charmingly companionable and confidential to him as even he could wish her to be.
She had a way with him that was sweeter to him even than Caroline's way. Caroline treated him as her chosen companion among all men, as he always had been so far, but she treated him as an equal, almost as a brother, though with a devotion not often shown by sisters to brothers. But Beatrix transformed herself into his little dog or slave. She behaved, without a trace of affectation, as if she were about six years old. She ran to fetch and carry for him, she tried to do things that he did, just as Bunting did, and laughed at herself for trying. Caroline often put her face up to his to be kissed, but Beatrix would take his hand, half-furtively, and kiss it softly or lay it to her cheek, or snuggle up to him with a little sigh of content, as if it were enough for her to be with him and adore him. This evening, by the pool at the edge of the park, where the grass was full of flowers and the grey aspens and heavy elms threw their shadows across the water and were reflected in its liquid depths, she was his gillie, and got so excited on the few occasions on which she had an opportunity of using the landing-net, that she got her skirt and shoes and stockings all covered with mud, just as if she were a child with no thought of clothes, instead of a young woman at the stage when they are of paramount importance.
He was so happy with this manifestation of her,which of all her moods he loved the best, that the discomfort he had felt about her was assuaged. He did not even want to ask her questions. A confiding active child, behaving with the sexlessness of a small boy, she was so far removed from all the absorptions of love-making that it would have seemed almost unnatural to bring them to her mind.
They strolled home very slowly, she carrying for him all he would allow her to carry and clinging to him closely, even making him put his arm round her shoulder, as she had done when she was little, so that she might put her arm around his waist.
"It's lovely being with you, my old Daddywad," she said. Then she sang a little song which a nurse had taught her, and with the mistakes she had made in her babyhood, and with the nurse's intonation:
"I love Daddy,My dear Daddy,And I know vat 'e loves me;'E's my blaymate,Raim or shine,Vere's not annover Daddy in er worl' like mine."
She laughed softly, and gave his substantial waist a squeeze. "You do like having me here, don't you, Daddy darling? You do miss me while I'm away?"
"Of course I do," he said. "I should like you to be here always. But you enjoy yourself in London, don't you?"
"Not half as much as I'm enjoying myself now," she said. It was just what Caroline had said. There was nobody either of them liked to be with so much as him. "When it's all over in July we'll stay here for a bit, won't we, Dad? Don't let's go abroad this year. I like this much better."
"I don't want to go abroad," he said. "I expect somebody will want to take you to Cowes though."
"I don't want to miss Cowes. I mean after that. We'll be quiet here and ask very few people, till it's time to go up to Scotland."
"Oh, you're going to Scotland, are you?"
"Yes, with the Ardrishaigs. I told you, darling. You don't love your little daughter enough to remember what she's going to do with herself. But you do like me to enjoy myself, don't you?"
"Of course I do. And you are enjoying yourself like anything, aren't you?"
"Oh, yes. I'm having spiffing fun. I never thought I should like it half so much. It makes everything so jolly. I've enjoyed being at home more because of it, and I shall enjoy it more still when I go back because I've loved being in the quiet country and having fun with you, my old Daddy."
"You're not getting your head turned, with all the young fellows dancing attendance on you?"
She laughed clearly. "That's the best fun of the lot," she said. "They are so silly, a lot of them. I'm sureyouweren't like that. Did you fall in love a lot when you first had your hair up?"
"Once or twice. It's the way of young fellows."
"I don't think it's the way of young girls, if they're nice. I'm not going to fall in love yet, if I ever do. I think it spoils things. I'm not sure that I don't rather like their falling in love with me though. I should consider it rather a slight if some of them didn't. Besides, they give me a lot of quiet fun."
"Well, as long as you don't fall in love yourself, just yet—— I don't want to lose you yet awhile."
"And I don't want to lose you, my precious old Daddy. I can't be always with you. I must have my fling, you know. But I love to feel you're just round the corner somewhere. I never forget you, darling, even when I'm enjoying myself most."
So that was all right. He was first, and the rest nowhere, with all his girls. He knew more about them than Mary possibly could. He would have to give them up to some confounded fellow some day, but even that wouldn't be so bad if they took it as Caroline had taken Francis Parry's proposal, and they married nice fellows such as he was, who wouldn't really divide them from their father. As for Lassigny, there was evidently no danger of anything of that sort happening. It would have hurt his little B to suggest such a thing, by way of sounding her, and he was glad he hadn't done it.