He had an idea that it must be some article of female attire or of fancy-work, since his frivolous young daughter desired to possess it. ‘A dingey—is—a kind of boat, papa.’ ‘On, a dingey!’ exclaimed Sir Vernon, as if she had said something else in the first instance. ‘What can you want with a dingey?’ ‘I am so dearly fond of the river, papa; and a dingey is such a safe boat, Bink says.’ ‘Who is Bink?’ ‘One of the under gardeners.’ ‘A curious authority to quote. So you want a dingey, and to row yourself about the river like a boy.’ ‘There is no one to notice me, papa.’ ‘The place is secluded enough, so long as you don’t go beyond our own meadows. I desired Madame Tolmache to have you taught swimming. Can you swim?’ ‘Yes, papa. I believe I am a rather good swimmer.’ ‘Well, you can have your boat—it is a horribly masculine taste—always provided you do not go beyond our own fields. I cannot have you boating over half the county.’ ‘I shall be quite happy to keep to our own fields, papa,’ Daphne answered meekly. She enlisted the devoted Bink in her service next morning; he patched up the old boat-house, and whitewashed the inside walls; much to the displeasure of Mr. MacCloskie, the head gardener, a gentleman in broadcloth and a top-hat, who seemed to do little more than walk about the grounds, smoke his pipe in the hot-houses, plan expensive improvements, and order costly novelties from the most famous nurseries at home and abroad. Bink ought to have been wheeling manure from the stable during that very afternoon which he had devoted to the repair of the boat-house; and Mr. MacCloskie declared that the future well-being of his melon-bed was imperilled by the young man’s misconduct. ‘I shall complain to Sir Vernon,’ said MacCloskie. ‘I beg your pardon, Mr. MacCloskie, but Miss Daphne told me to do it.’ ‘Miss Daphne, indeed! I can’t have my gardeners interfered with by Miss Daphne,’ exclaimed MacCloskie; as much as to say that his master’s second daughter was a person of very small account. He gave Daphne a lecture that evening, in very broad Scotch, when he met her in the rose-garden. ‘You’ll be meddling with my roses next, miss, I suppose,’ he said severely. ‘You young ladies from boarding-school have no respect for anything.’ ‘Your roses!’ cried Daphne, with a contemptuous glance at the closely-pruned twigs of the standards, which at this early period looked as if they would never flower again. ‘When I see any I shall know how to appreciate them. Roses, indeed! I wonder you like to mention them. Everything flowers a month earlier in France than you can make it do here. I had a finer Gloire de Dijon nodding in at my window at Asnières this time last year than you ever saw in your life’; and she marched off, leaving MacCloskie with a dim idea that in any skirmish with this young lady he was likely to be worsted.