“Then,” he said, rising with difficulty, “I have said all I have to say, and done all that I can do. I shall still hope that you may change your mind. I shall not yet abandon hope. Good-bye.” She touched his hand, and then the Squire offering him his arm, he went down the steps to his carriage. “I hope, Mr. de la Molle,” he said, “that bad as things look for me, if they should take a turn I shall have your support.” “My dear sir,” answered the Squire, “I tell you frankly that I wish my daughter would marry you. As I said before, it would for obvious reasons be desirable. But Ida is not like ordinary women. When she sets her mind upon a thing she sets it like a flint. Times may change, however, and that is all I can say. Yes, if I were you, I should remember that this is a changeable world, and women are the most changeable things in it.” When the carriage was gone he re-entered the vestibule. Ida, who was going away much disturbed in mind, saw him come, and knew from the expression of his face that there would be trouble. With characteristic courage she turned, determined to brave it out. CHAPTER XXXIII. THE SQUIRE SPEAKS HIS MIND For a minute or more her father fidgeted about, moving his papers backwards and forwards but saying nothing. At last he spoke. “You have taken a most serious and painful step, Ida,” he said. “Of course you have a right to do as you please, you are of full age, and I cannot expect that you will consider me or your family in your matrimonial engagements, but at the same time I think it is my duty to point out to you what it is that you are doing. You are refusing one of the finest matches in England in order to marry a broken-down, middle-aged, half-pay colonel, a man who can hardly support you, whose part in life is played, or who is apparently too idle to seek another.” Here Ida’s eyes flashed ominously, but she made no comment, being apparently afraid to trust herself to speak. “You are doing this,” went on her father, working himself up as he spoke, “in the face of my wishes, and with a knowledge that your action will bring your family, to say nothing of your father, to utter and irretrievable ruin.” “Surely, father, surely,” broke in Ida, almost in a cry, “you would not have me marry one man when I love another. When I made the promise I had not become attached to Colonel Quaritch.” “Love! pshaw!” said her father. “Don’t talk to me in that sentimental and school-girl way—you are too old for it. I am a plain man, and I believe in family affection and in _duty_, Ida. _Love_, as you call it, is only too often another word for self-will and selfishness and other things that we are better without.”