The meal was a somewhat silent one. Perhaps Constance was pondering the looks which she had not been able to ignore, the words which she had managed to quench like so many fiery arrows before they could set fire to anything, of her eager lover, and was pale and a little preoccupied in spite of herself, feeling that things were going further than she intended; and perhaps her father, feeling the situation too serious, and remonstrance inevitable, was silenced by the thought of what he had to say. It is so difficult in such circumstances for two people, with no relief from any third party, without even that wholesome regard for the servant in attendance, which keeps the peace during many a family crisis--for with Domenico, who knew no English, they were as safe as when they were alone--it is very difficult to find subjects for conversation, that will not lead direct to the very heart of the matter which is being postponed. Constance could not talk of her music, for Gaunt was associated with it. She could not speak of her walk, for he was her invariable companion. She could ask no questions about the neighbourhood, for was it not to make her acquainted with the neighbourhood that all those expeditions were being made? The great bouquet of anemones which blazed in the centre of the table came from Mrs Gaunt’s garden. She began to think that she was buying her amusement too dearly. As for Waring, his mind was not so full of these references, but he was occupied by the thought of what he had to say to this headstrong girl, and by a strong sense that he was an ill-used man, in having such responsibilities thrust upon him against his will. Frances would not have led him into such difficulties. To Frances, young Gaunt would have been no more interesting than his father; or so at least this man, whose experience had taught him so little, was ready to believe. “I want to say something to you, Constance,” he began at length, after Domenico had left the room. “You must not stop my mouth by remarks about middle-age parents. I am a middle-age parent, so there is an end of it. Are you going to marry George Gaunt?” “I--going to marry George Gaunt! Papa!” “You had better, I think,” said her father. “It will save us all a great deal of embarrassment. I should not have recommended it, had I been consulted at the beginning. But you like to be independent and have your own way; and the best thing you can do is to marry. I don’t know how your mother will take it; but so far as I am concerned, I think it would save everybody a great deal of trouble. You will be able to turn him round your finger; that will suit you, though the want of money may be in your way.” “I think you must mean to insult me, papa,” said Constance, who had grown crimson. “That is all nonsense, my dear. I am suggesting what seems the best thing in the circumstances, to set us all at our ease.” “To get rid of me, you mean,” she cried.