Just then some unlucky impulse guided her eyes in her mother’s direction, a little softening towards her had seized on the girl for the instant and her eyes had followed her thoughts, but they dropped like a shot, she stiffened, and loosed hold of the piece of Mrs. Fellowes’ dress she had furtively been clinging to. Her mother’s eyes were fixed on her in a puzzled, uncomprehending, rather disappointed way, horribly trying to her pride. “I’ll not say another word, not if they tear me with wild horses!” she said to herself tragically. “How dare she look at me like that! Now, Dacre, upon my word, I would not blame her if she did it to him! Dacre, you look awful!” she whispered viciously, “more beastly than human! Shut your mouth!” And not another word could Mr. Fellowes, to his infinite relief, extract from the girl. As for the boy he was, on the face of it, hopeless; so in defiance of and despite the protesting attitude of the harassed parents, the rector calmly put his foot down and brought this ceremony to a conclusion. “Mr. Waring,” he said, “I think you must be satisfied that at least we have fairly virgin soil to work in.” Mr. Waring mumbled a gentle, “H’m!” He was thoroughly dissatisfied with the whole business. “Will you allow Gwen to come to our house,” went on Mr. Fellowes imperturbably, “every Tuesday and, let me see, every Friday afternoon?” Gwen flashed a glance of delight on Mrs. Fellowes and across her she flung a grin of defiance on Dacre. “And to Dacre, if you will allow me, I will give one or two books to read when he happens to get time. Story books, Dacre, don’t squirm.” Mr. and Mrs. Waring again looked with melancholy regret at each other, then extended the glance to their offspring. When it reached Mr. Fellowes a slight touch of gentle wrath had flittered into it, but it was in vain to kick against the pricks, the proceedings were at an end, and another failure had died and was buried out of their sight. And then they all drank some cold tea, and little atoms of cake were presented to the children, with a timid request from their mother to pick the currants out of them, this bugbear of their infancy still clinging to the little woman, and the drawing-room twilight was left at last free to the pair who looked haggard, tired, and frustrated. CHAPTER XII. DACRE had been shot through Eton into Sandhurst, and Gwen was fast growing up and imbibing religious instruction in precisely the fashion one might have expected from her surroundings and her turn of mind.