"Civility? Between father and daughter? When she ought to be proud of such a father--proud of all that you are, and all that you have done! She should be adoring you, slaving for you, ready to sacrifice herself at your smallest word--and see what she is! A machine, silent, useless, unwilling--from whom all that you can claim is--civility! Oh, women are capable sometimes of taking a terrible revenge!" She threw her hands out with a gesture of despair and deprecation, which was really fine in its way; then she rose from her chair, went to the mantelpiece, and stood with her face bent upon her clasped hands. Caspar rose too, and stood on the hearthrug beside her, looking down at the pretty ruffled head, with something very like affection in his eye. He did not quite understand this emotion of hers, but its sincerity touched as well as puzzled him. For she was sincere as far as he was concerned, and this sincerity gave her a certain amount of power, such as sincerity always gives. The ring of true feeling in her voice could not be counterfeited, and Caspar was flattered by it, as any man would have been flattered at having excited so much sympathy in the heart of a talented and beautiful woman. He knew that Alice had been jealous of Rosalind Romaine, but, he thought, quite unreasonably so. Poor Rosalind, tied to a dry old stick of a husband, to whom she did her duty most thoroughly, was naturally glad to talk now and then to a man who knew something of Art and Life. That was simple enough, and he had been glad of her interest and sympathy, especially as these were denied to him by his wife. There was nothing for Lady Alice to be jealous about. And he had dismissed the matter impatiently from his thoughts. Alice had left him because she hated his opinions, his manner of life, his profession--not because she was jealous of Rosalind Romaine. But Rosalind knew better. The woman's sympathy affected him so far, however, that, after standing silent for a minute or two, he laid his hand softly upon her arm. It was a foolish thing to do, but then Caspar Brooke was never a particularly wise man, in spite of his goodness of heart and fertility of brain. And Rosalind felt, by the thrill that ran through her at his touch, that she had gained more from him than she had ever gained before. What would he say next? Well, he did not say very much. "Your sympathy, Rosalind," he said, "is very pleasant--very dear to me. But you must not give me too much of it. Sympathy is enervating, as other men have found before me!" "May I not offer you mine?" she said, plaintively. "It is so hard to be silent! If only I could make Lesley understand what you are--how noble--how good----" Caspar laughed, and took away his hand. "Don't talk to her about me; it would do no good," he said.