"Well--what is it?--your Slingsby property, I suppose." "No, my dear father--pray sit down and hear me patiently." Lord Saxingham began to be both alarmed and curious--he seated himself in silence, and looked anxiously in the face of his daughter. "You have always been very indulgent to me," commenced Florence, with a half smile, "and I have had my own way more than most young ladies. Believe me, my dear father. I am most grateful not only for your affection but your esteem. I have been a strange wild girl, but I am now about to reform; and as the first step, I ask your consent to give myself a preceptor and a guide--" "A what!" cried Lord Saxingham. "In other words, I am about to--to--well, the truth must out--to marry." "Has the Duke of ------ been here to-day?" "Not that I know of. But it is no duke to whom I have promised my hand--it is a nobler and rarer dignity that has caught my ambition. Mr. Maltravers has--" "Mr. Maltravers!--Mr. Devil!--the girl's mad!--don't talk to me, child, I won't consent to any such nonsense. A country gentleman--very respectable, very clever, and all that, but it's no use talking--my mind's made up. With your fortune, too!" "My dear father, I will not marry without your consent, though my fortune is settled on me, and I am of age." "There's a good child--and now let me dress--we shall be late." "No, not yet," said Lady Florence, throwing her arm carelessly round her father's neck--"I shall marry Mr. Maltravers, but it will be with your full approval. Just consider, if I married the Duke of ------, he would expect all my fortune, such as it is. Ten thousand a year is at my disposal; if I marry Mr. Maltravers, it will be settled on you--I always meant it--it is a poor return for your kindness, your indulgence--but it will show that your own Flory is not ungrateful." "I won't hear." "Stop--listen to reason. You are not rich--you are entitled but to a small pension if you ever resign office, and your official salary, I have often heard you say, does not prevent you from being embarrassed. To whom should a daughter give from her superfluities but to a parent?--from whom should a parent receive, but from a child, who can never repay his love?--Ah, this is nothing; but you--you who have never crossed her lightest whim--do not you destroy all the hopes of happiness your Florence can ever form."