"Dear Hubert, you are growing romantic yourself again, or you would scarcely call Alan a child. If he is one he is very wise for his years. But on the principle of love levelling everything, I suppose all ages are the same when people forget to be prudent. Of course it was a great surprise to me. I can hardly realize it yet; but--has not Helen told you? I _do_ approve more than I ought to do, and I hope and pray that good may come of it to both of them. I love Alan nearly as well as I do my own Helen, and she and you know how dearly that is." She wound her arm round her daughter's waist as she spoke, and drew her close till the two soft cheeks met. It was the prettiest _pose_ you can fancy--nothing theatrical or affected about it--enough of tender _abandon_ to satisfy the most fastidious critic of attitudes--beautifully maternal without being "gushingly" demonstrative; but not a hair in "my lady's" careful braids was ruffled, nor a fold in her perfect dress disarranged. The embrace was still in progress, when the door opened again and Alan Wyverne joined them, only preceding by a few seconds the announcement of dinner. It is just possible that the caress might have ended more abruptly, if one ear in the cedar drawing-room had not been quick enough to distinguish his footsteps from that of the Chief Butler--a portly man, with a grand and goodly presence, in his gait sedate and solemn--who ever bore himself with the decent dignity befitting one long in authority, conscious of virtue, and weighing seventeen stone.