"True? Is what true? That I have been to Kilby sometimes to have a chat with Sage Portlock? Of course it is. Why not?" "You own to it, then?" said his father. "Own to it, if you like to call it so, sir. And now, pray, where is the harm?" Mrs Mallow withdrew her hand from her son's grasp, and looked in his face with a terribly pained expression, for, with all her gentleness of disposition, the sense of caste was in her very strongly; and with all his failings, she had looked upon Cyril as a noble representative of the mingled blood of the old family Mallows and the Heskeths from whom she sprang. "I am to understand, then," said the Rector, "that you propose honouring us with a daughter chosen from the people here." "I don't say yes, and I don't say no," replied Cyril, cavalierly. "I think I have heard you say often that Sage was a very nice girl." "Sage?" "Yes, Sage. I think you had the pleasure of baptising her by her herbaceous name, so you ought to know." The Rector exchanged glances with his wife, whose face wore a very pitiable look. "I have--yes--certainly--often said that Miss Portlock was a very good, sensible girl," he said at last. "Well, then, what more do you want, sir? I suppose you expect a man to think about such things at some time in his life?" "But have you proposed for her hand?" said his mother, faintly. "Proposed for her hand? Nonsense, mamma. People of their class don't understand things in that light." This was a false move, and the Rector took advantage of the slip. "People of that class, sir? Then you acknowledge that you are degrading yourself by these proceedings." "Oh, I don't know about degrading myself, sir. You know what they say. If a lady marries her groom she descends to his level. If a man marries his cook he raises her to his." "But does Mr Portlock--my Churchwarden--know of your intentions?" "How can he," said Cyril, coolly, "when I have none?" "But Mrs Portlock believes that you are paying your attentions to her niece." "Yes, I s'pose so," he replied. "Terribly silly woman." "Oh, Cyril, Cyril," said his mother, "this is very, very shocking." "Stuff and nonsense, mamma. Why, what a tremendous fuss about a little bit of flirtation with a pretty little schoolmistress. You nearly had her sister for a daughter-in-law when Frank was after her." "Frank saw the folly of his proceedings, and grew sensible," said the Rector. "Oh, did he!" muttered Cyril. "The word flirtation, Cyril," said the Rector firmly, "is a disgrace to our civilisation, and one that ought certainly to be heard from no decent lips." "Matter of opinion, of course," said Cyril; and he placed his hands under his head and stared straight out of the window, while the Rector and his wife exchanged glances. "Cyril," said the former at last, after a struggle to keep down his anger, "I will not quarrel with you." "That's right, governor. I hate quarrelling." "But while you are under my roof I must be obeyed."