‘It is a prejudice that I have rarely seen belied by experience. I wish you had chosen Edgar. There is a fine fellow for you, a lineal descendant of that Turchill who was sheriff of Warwickshire in the reign of the Confessor. Shakespeare’s mother could trace her descent from the same stock. So you see that Edgar can claim alliance with the greatest poet of all time.’ ‘I should never have thought it,’ said Madoline laughingly; ‘his lineage doesn’t show itself in his conversation. I like him very much, you know, papa; indeed, I may say I love him, but it is in a thoroughly sisterly fashion. By-the-by, papa, don’t you think he might make an excellent husband for Daphne?’ she faltered, with downcast eyes, as she went on with her crewel-work. ‘She would be an uncommonly fortunate girl if she got him,’ retorted Sir Vernon, with a clouding countenance; ‘he is too good for her.’ ‘Oh, father! can you speak like that of your own daughter?’ remonstrated Lina. ‘Is a man to shut his eyes to a girl’s character because she happens to bear his name?’ asked Sir Vernon impatiently. ‘Daphne is a lump of self-indulgent frivolity.’ ‘Indeed you are mistaken,’ cried Lina; ‘she is very sweet-tempered and loving.’ ‘Sweet-tempered! Yes; I know the kind of thing. Winning words, pretty looks, trivial fascinations; a creature whose movements you watch—fascinated by her variety—as you watch a bird in a cage. Graceful, beautiful, false, worthless! I have some experience of the type.’ ‘Father, this is the most cruel prejudice. What can Daphne have ever done to offend you?’ ‘Done! Is she not her mother’s daughter? Don’t argue with me about her, Lina. She is here beside my hearth, and I must make the best of her. God grant she may come to no harm; but I am full of fear when I think of her future.’ ‘Then you would be glad if Edgar were to propose for her, and she were to accept him?’ ‘Certainly. It would be the very best thing that could happen to her. I should only feel sorry for him. But I don’t think a man who once loved you would ever content himself with Daphne.’ ‘He is very attentive to her.’ ‘_Che sara, sara!_’ murmured Sir Vernon languidly. * * * * * It was Midsummer-day—the hottest, brightest day there had been yet, and Daphne had given herself up to unmixed enjoyment of the warmth and light and cloudless blue sky. Sir Vernon and Madoline had a luncheon engagement at a house beyond Stoneleigh, a drive of eleven miles each way, so dinner had been postponed from eight to half-past, and Daphne had the livelong day to herself; free to follow her own devices, free even from the company of her devoted slave Edgar, who would have hung upon her like a burr had he been at home, but who was spending a few days in London with his mother, escorting that somewhat homely matron to picture-galleries, garden-parties, and theatres, and trying to rub off a year’s rural rust by a week’s metropolitan friction.