"That's all damned nonsense," responded Sir George; "but if you will have it so, well and good. Take your own course. I suppose it's the fashion at court. The good old country way suits me. A girl's father tells her whom she is to marry, and, by gad, she does it without a word and is glad to get a man. English girls obey their parents. They know what to expect if they don't--the lash, by God and the dungeon under the keep. Your roundabout method is all right for tenants and peasants; but among people who possess estates and who control vast interests, girls are--girls are--Well, they are born and brought up to obey and to help forward the interests of their houses." The old man was growing very drunk, and after a long pause he continued: "Have your own way, Malcolm, but don't waste time. Now that the matter is settled, I want to get it off my hands quickly." "I shall speak to Dorothy on the subject at the first favorable opportunity," I responded; "but I warn you, Sir George, that if Dorothy proves disinclined to marry me, I will not accept her hand." "Never fear for Doll; she will be all right," and we parted. Doll all right! Had he only known how very far from "all right" Dorothy was, he would have slept little that night. This brings me to the other change of which I spoke--the change in Dorothy. Change? It was a metamorphosis. A fortnight after the scene at The Peacock I accidentally discovered a drawing made by Dorothy of a man with a cigarro in his mouth. The girl snatched the paper from my hands and blushed convincingly. "It is a caricature of--of him," she said. She smiled, and evidently was willing to talk upon the subject of "him." I declined the topic. This happened a month or more previous to my conversation with Sir George concerning Dorothy. A few days after my discovery of the cigarro picture, Dorothy and I were out on the terrace together. Frequently when she was with me she would try to lead the conversation to the topic which I well knew was in her mind, if not in her heart, at all times. She would speak of our first meeting at The Peacock, and would use every artifice to induce me to bring up the subject which she was eager to discuss, but I always failed her. On the day mentioned when we were together on the terrace, after repeated failures to induce me to speak upon the desired topic, she said, "I suppose you never meet--meet--him when you ride out?" "Whom, Dorothy?" I asked. "The gentleman with the cigarro," she responded, laughing nervously. "No," I answered, "I know nothing of him." The subject was dropped. At another time she said, "He was in the village--Overhaddon--yesterday." Then I knew who "him" was. "How do you know?" I asked. "Jennie Faxton, the farrier's daughter, told me. She often comes to the Hall to serve me. She likes to act as my maid, and is devoted to me." "Did he send any word to you?" I asked at a venture. The girl blushed and hung her head. "N-o," she responded.