'Not bad,' said the baronet, blandly, 'for a commoner. But Madge could win a coronet if she chose; and I confess that I have looked forward to seeing her take her place in the peerage. However, if she really likes you, and has made up her mind about it, any objections of mine would be useless, no doubt; and as far as personal feeling goes there is no one I should like better for a son-in-law than yourself.' The two gentlemen shook hands upon this, and Sir Nugent felt that he had not let his handsome daughter go too cheap, and had paved the way for a liberal settlement. He asked his future son-in-law to dinner, and Churchill, who would not have foregone that promised afternoon tea for worlds, chartered the swiftest hansom he could find, drove back to Cavendish Row, spent an hour with the two girls and a little bevy of feminine droppers-in, then drove to the Temple to dress, and reappeared at Sir Nugent's street door just as the neighbouring clocks chimed the first stroke of eight. 'Bless the young man, how he do come backwards and forwards since he's come into his estates!' said the butler, who had read all about James Penwyn's death in the papers. 'I always suspected that he had a sneaking kindness for our eldest young lady, and now it's clear they're going to keep company. If he's coming in and out like this every day, I hope he'll have consideration enough to make it worth my while to open the door for him.' * * * * * 'I hope you are not angry with me, papa,' said Madge, by and by, after her lover had bid them good night and departed, and when father and daughter were alone together. 'Angry with you? no, my love, but just a trifle disappointed. This seems to me quite a poor match for a girl with your advantages.' 'Oh, papa, Churchill has seven thousand a year: and think of our income.' 'My love, that is not the question in point. What I have to think of is the match you might have made, had it not been for this unlucky infatuation. There is Mr. Balecroft, with his palace in Belgravia, a picture gallery worth a quarter of a million, and a superb place at Windermere——' 'A man who drops his h's, papa—complains of being 'ot!' 'Or Sir Henry Featherstone, one of the oldest families in Yorkshire, with twelve thousand a year.' 'And not an idea which he has not learnt from his trainer or his jockey! Oh, papa, don't forget Tennyson's noble line,— "Cursed be the gold that gilds the straightened forehead of the fool!"' 'All very well for poets to write that sort of stuff, but a man in my position doesn't like to see his daughter throw away her chances. However, I suppose I mustn't complain. Penwyn Manor is a nice enough place, I dare say. 'You must come to stay with me, papa, every year.' 'My love, that kind of place would be the death of me, except for a week in October. I suppose there are plenty of pheasants?' 'I dare say, papa. If not, we'll order some.'