Cynthia and her father met the next morning under the spreading branches of the trees in Kensington Gardens; and there, as they walked up and down together, Westwood unfolded his plans. From what he let slip--although he tried not to be too definite--it was evident that he had made considerable sums of money, or what he thought such; and he wanted Cynthia to give up working, and "go West" with him. He assured her that she should have every comfort, every luxury; that he was likely to make more and more money as time went on, and that he might even become a millionaire. Would she not partake of the magnificence that was in store for her? But Cynthia shook her head. And then he spoke of his loneliness, of his long absence from his only child, and his desire to have a home of his own; now that he began to feel the infirmities of age, he not only wanted a daughter as an ornament to his house, but as the prop of his declining years. And at this Cynthia shed tears and began to waver. Ought she not to go with her father? she asked herself. It might be better for Hubert, as well as for her, if she went away; and, even if at the end of two years she became Hubert's wife, she would at any rate have had two years with her father. And, if Hubert married "the other girl," she would stay with her father until his life's end--or hers. But the fact remained at the end of all arguments--she did not want to go. "What do you want to stay in England for?" Westwood said at length. "Is it to make money? I've got enough for both of us. Is it to sing in public? You'll get bigger audiences over there, my girl. If you love your old father as you say you do, why won't you come along with him?" He paused, and added, almost in a whisper, "Unless there's somebody you like better, I don't see why you want to stay." Cynthia's face turned crimson immediately. Her father's words made her feel very guilty. She loved him--true; but she loved Hubert better, and she had not known it until that moment. She knew it thoroughly now. "Well," said Westwood, in a peculiarly dogged tone, "I see what's up. Who is he?" "He is a very clever man, father," said Cynthia, keeping her hot face away from him as much as possible--"a literary man; he writes plays and novels and poetry. He is thought a great deal of in London." "As poor as a rat, and wants you to keep him. Is that it?" "Oh, no, indeed, father! He makes a great deal of money. It was he who sent me to Italy to study music; he paid for me to live where I do, with Madame della Scala." They were in a quiet part of the Gardens, and her father suddenly laid an iron grip upon her wrist. "Look at me," he burst out--"tell me the truth! You--you ain't--you ain't bound to him in any way?" He dare not, after all, put his sudden suspicion into plainer words. "It's all fair and square? He's asked you to be his wife, and not----" Cynthia wrenched away her arm.