He sat down by the window and lit a cigarette. "You'd better tell Barbara and Bunting too," he said. "B ought not to have engaged herself without asking me first. Anyhow, she's much too young yet. I can't allow any engagement, for at least a year. I shall bring her down here, and we'll all be happy together." Caroline felt an immense lightening of the tension. He had spoken in his usual equable untroubled voice, announcing a decision in the way that had always made his word law in the family, though he had never before announced a decision of such importance. Responsibility was lifted from her shoulders. It had seemed to be her part to help him in uncertainty of mind, and she had felt herself inadequate to the task. But now he had made up his mind, and she had only to accept his decision. Beatrix also, though it might be harder for her. But she would accept her father's ruling. They had always obeyed him, and he had made obedience so easy. After all, he did know best. Miss Waterhouse laid down her work on her lap. "I'm sure it will be the best thing just to say that there can be no engagement for a certain fixed time," she said. It was seldom that she offered any advice without being directly asked for it. But she said this with some earnestness, her eyes fixed upon his face. "Yes, that will be the best way," he said, and she took up her work again. He did not revert again to his gloomy state that evening. He and Caroline presently went out and joined Barbara and Bunting. They played golf till it was time to dress for dinner, and played bridge after dinner. He was his usual self, except that he occasionally lapsed into silence and did not respond to what was said. Beatrix's name was not mentioned. He went up to London early the next morning, spent the greater part of the day at the Bank, and dined at one of his clubs. He played bridge afterwards until it was time to go to the station to meet the train by which Beatrix would come. So far he had successively staved off unpleasant thoughts. He had not been alone all day, for he had found acquaintances in the train going up to London. He had wanted not to be alone. He had wanted to keep up that mood of lightly poised but unquestioned authority, in which he would tell Beatrix, without putting blame on her for what she had done, that it couldn't be, and then dismiss the matter as far as possible from his mind, and leave her to get over her disappointment, which he thought she would do quickly. He was not quite pleased with her, which prevented him from sympathising much beforehand with whatever disappointment she might feel; but his annoyance had largely subsided, and he was actually looking forward with pleasure to seeing her dear face again and getting her loving greeting. Unfortunately the train was late, and he had to pace the platform for five and twenty minutes, during which time this lighter mood in its turn gave way to one of trouble almost as great as he had felt at first.