"What a lot of nonsense you do talk, you silly boy!" says Clarissa, who is still leaning over his chair in such a position that he cannot see her face. Perhaps, could he have seen it, he might have noticed how pale it is beyond its wont. "Well, the Redmonds seemed quite pleased, and I shall write to Georgie to-morrow. It will be nice for her to be here, near me. It may keep her from being lonely and unhappy." "Well, it ought," says George Peyton. "What did the vicar say?" "The vicar always says just what I say," replies she, a trifle saucily, and with a quick smile. "Poor man! his is the common lot," says her father; and then, believing she has said all she wants to say, and being filled with a desire to return to his book and his notes, he goes on: "So that was the weighty matter you wanted to discuss, eh? Is that all your news?" "Not quite," returns she, in a low tone. "No? You are rich in conversation this evening. Who is it we are now to criticise?" "The person you love best,--I hope." "Why, that will be you," says George Peyton. "You are sure?" says Clarissa, a little tremulously; and then her father turns in his chair and tries to read her face. "No; stay just as you are; I can tell you better if you do not look at me," she whispers, entreatingly, moving him with her hands back to his former position. "What is it, Clarissa?" he asks, hastily, though he is far from suspecting the truth. Some faint thought of James Scrope (why he knows not) comes to him at this moment, and not unpleasingly. "Tell me, darling. Anything that concerns you must, of necessity, concern me also." "Yes, I am glad I know that," she says, speaking with some difficulty, but very earnestly. "To-day I met Horace Branscombe." "Yes?" His face changes a little, from vague expectancy to distinct disappointment; but then she cannot see his face. "And he asked me to be his wife--and--I said, Yes--if--if it pleases you, papa." It is over. The dreaded announcement is made. The words that have cost her so much to utter have gone out into the air; and yet there is no answer! For a full minute silence reigns, and then Clarissa lays her hand imploringly upon her father's shoulder. He is looking straight before him, his expression troubled and grave, his mouth compressed. "Speak to me," says Clarissa, entreatingly. After this he does speak. "I wish it had been Dorian," he says, impulsively. Then she takes her hand from his shoulder, as though it can no longer rest there in comfort, and her eyes fill with disappointed tears. "Why do you say that?" she asks, with some vehemence. "It sounds as if--as if you undervalued Horace! Yet what reason have you for doing so? What do you know against him?" "Nothing, literally nothing," answers Mr. Peyton, soothingly, yet with a plaintive ring in his voice that might suggest the idea of his being sorry that such answer must be made. "I am sure Horace is very much to be liked."