She looked at him. And there was not that complete docility in her look which he expected to find. “I don’t think I understand, sir,” she murmured. “But you can easily understand this, Mary,” he replied. “That young girls of your age, without experience of life or of—of the darker side of things, cannot be allowed to judge for themselves on all occasions. There are sometimes circumstances to be weighed which it is not possible to detail to them.” She closed her eyes for an instant, to collect her thoughts. “But—but, sir,” she said, “you cannot wish me to have no will—no choice—in a matter which affects me so nearly.” “No,” he said, speaking seriously and with something approaching sternness. “But that will and that choice must be guided. They should be guided. Your feelings are natural—God forbid that I should think them otherwise! But you must leave the decision to me.” She looked at him, aghast. She had heard, but had never believed, that in the upper classes matches were arranged after this fashion. But to have no will and no choice in such a thing as marriage! She must be dreaming. “You cannot,” he continued, looking at her firmly but not unkindly, “have either the knowledge of the past,” with a slight grimace, as of pain, “or the experience needful to enable you to measure the result of the step you take. You must, therefore, let your seniors decide for you.” “But I could never—never,” she answered, with a deep blush, “marry a man without—liking him, sir.” “Marry?” Sir Robert repeated. He stared at her. She returned the look. “I thought, sir,” she faltered, with a still deeper blush, “that you were talking of that.” “My dear,” he said, gravely, “I am referring to the subject on which I understood that you requested Miss Sibson to speak to me.” “My mother?” she whispered, the colour fading quickly from her face. He paused a moment. Then, “You would oblige me,” he said, slowly and formally, “by calling her Lady Sybil Vermuyden. And not—that.” “But she is—my mother,” she persisted. He looked at her, his head slightly bowed, his lower lip thrust out. “Listen,” he said, with decision. “What you propose—to go to her, I mean—is impossible. Impossible, you understand. There must be an end of any thought of it!” His tone was cold, but not unkind. “The thing must not be mentioned again, if you please,” he added. She was silent a while. Then, “Why, sir?” she asked. She spoke tremulously, and with an effort. But he had not expected her to speak at all. Yet he merely continued, as he stood on the hearth rug, to look at her askance. “That is for me,” he said, “to decide.” “But——” “But I will tell you,” he said, stiffly. “Because she has already ruined part of your life!” “I forgive her, from my heart!” Mary cried.