Mary, the moment his back was turned, hurried with downcast face towards the Kennels; to hide her hot cheeks and calm her feelings in the depths of the shrubbery. Oddly enough, her first thoughts were less of that which had just happened to her than of that suit which had been paid to her months before. This man might love her or not; she could not tell. But Arthur Vaughan had loved her: the fashion of this love taught her to prize the fashion of that. He had loved her. And if he had treated her as Mr. Flixton had treated her? Would she have held to him, she wondered. She believed that she would. But the mere thought set her knees trembling, made her cheeks flame afresh, filled her with rapture. So that, shamefaced, frightened, glancing this way and that, as one hunted, she longed to be safe in her room, there to cry at her ease. Doubtless it was natural that the incident should turn her thoughts to that other love-making; and presently to her father’s furious dislike of that other lover. She could not understand that dislike; for the Bill and the Borough, Franchise or No Franchise, were nothing to her. And the grievance, when Sir Robert had essayed to explain it, had been nothing. To her mind, Trafalgar and Waterloo and the greatness of England were the work of Nelson and Wellington—at the remotest, perhaps, of Mr. Pitt and Lord Castlereagh. She could not enter into the reasoning which attributed these and all other blessings of her country to a System! To a System which it seemed her lover was pledged to overthrow. She walked until the tumult of her thoughts had somewhat abated; and then, still yearning for the security of her own chamber, she made for the house. She saw nothing of Flixton, no one was stirring. Already she thought herself safe; and it was the very spirit of mischief which brought her, at the corner of the church, face to face with her father. Sir Robert’s brow was clouded, and the “My dear, one moment,” with which he stayed her, was pitched in a more decisive tone than he commonly used to her. “I wish to speak to you, Mary,” he continued. “Will you come with me to the library?” She would fain have postponed the discussion of Mr. Flixton’s proposal, which she foresaw. But her father, affectionate and gentle as he was, was still unfamiliar; and she had not the courage to make her petition. So she accompanied him, with a sinking heart, to the library. And, when he pointed to a seat, she was glad to sit down. He took up his own position on the hearth rug; whence he looked at her gravely before he spoke. At length: “My dear,” he said, “I’m sorry for this! Though I do not blame you. I think that you do not understand, owing to those drawbacks of your early life, which have otherwise, thank God, left so slight a mark upon you, that there are things which at your time of life you must leave to—to the decision of your elders.”