‘Now I never could do anything like this,’ said Mrs. Meredith, looking round. ‘I am fond of china too; but I never know what is good and what is bad; and sometimes I see your papa take down a bit which I think beautiful, and look at it with such a face. How is one to know,’ she said, laughing merrily, ‘if one is not clever? I got the book with all the marks in it, but, my dear child, I never recollect one of them; and then such quantities of pretty china are never marked at all. Ah, I can understand why he doesn’t come here! I think I would make little changes, Cara. Take down that, for instance’--and she pointed at random to the range of velvet-covered shelves, on the apex of which stood the Buen Retiro cup--‘and put a picture in its place. Confuse him by a few changes. Now stop: is he in? I think we might do it at once, and then we could have him up.’ Cara shrank perceptibly. She drew herself a little away from the stranger’s side. ‘You are frightened,’ cried Mrs. Meredith, with a soft laugh. ‘Now, Cara, Cara, this is exactly what I tell you must not be. You don’t know how good and gentle he is. I can talk to him of anything--even my servants, if I am in trouble with them; and every woman in London, who is not an angel, is in trouble with her servants from time to time. Last time my cook left me---- Why, there is nothing,’ said Mrs. Meredith, reflectively, ‘of which I could not talk to your papa. He is kindness itself.’ This was meant to be very reassuring, but somehow it did not please Cara. A half resentment (not so distinct as that) came into her mind that her father, who surely belonged to her, rather than to any other person on the face of the earth, should be thus explained to her and recommended. The feeling was natural, but painful, and somewhat absurd, for there could be no doubt that she did not know him, and apparently Mrs. Meredith did; and what she said was wise; only somehow it jarred upon Cara, who was sensitive all over, and felt every touch, now here, now there.