"You cannot expect me," said Fanny, rising from her chair, "to give a decided 'Yes' or 'No' to this proposition of yours, however delicately you may have veiled it. You see I am as candid with you as you were with me. You have had no shrieks of horror, no exclamations of startled propriety, and I conclude you did not expect them; but it is a matter which I must think over, and let you know the result." "Exactly what I expected from your common sense, my dear child. My appreciation of you is higher than ever. When shall I hear?" "If I don't write to you before, I will be here this day week at this time." "So be it," said the Colonel, and he led her to the door. As she passed, he touched her forehead with his lips, and so they parted. "I suppose I ought to be in a whirl of terror, fright, and shame," said Daisy to herself, as she walked towards the West; "but I feel none of these sensations. It is a matter which will require a great deal of thinking about, and must have very careful attention." CHAPTER XXIII. POOR PAUL. It is eleven o'clock in the morning on the first day of Paul's return to work, and business in the Principal Registrar's room at H.M. Stannaries is in full swing. Mr. Courtney has just arrived, and is seated before the brightly-burning fire--the old gentleman used to harass the souls of the messengers in reference to this fire--reading _The Morning Post_. He looks much better for his holiday, and is wigged, and curled, and buckled, and girthed, and generally got up as much as ever. George Wainwright is seated at his desk, with several sheets of manuscript before him, which he is scoring through with a pencil, and annotating marginally; from time to time uttering contemptuous grunts of "Pshaw!" and "Stuff!" and "No nominative case," greatly to the disgust of Mr. Billy Dunlop, who is the author of the work in course of supervision. Mr. Dunlop, whose commencement of his official duties consists hitherto in his having made one large blot on a sheet of foolscap, and newly nibbed a quill pen, whistles softly to himself as he regards the work of demolition going on, and mutters in an undertone, "Ursa Major is going it this morning. I shall have all that infernal _précis_ to write over again." And Paul Derinzy is seated at his desk, but he has not even attempted the pretext of doing any work. His chin is resting on his hands, and he is gazing straight before him, looking across at George, but not seeing him in the least, for his thoughts are busily engaged elsewhere. George Wainwright is the first to speak. "I can't compliment you on your effort, my dear Billy," said he laughing, and looking across to Mr. Dunlop. "I don't think I have come across a production in which there was such an entire absence of sense, grammar, and cohesion as this _précis_ of yours, which you have made of the Falmouth collector's report."