Immediately Mr. Glynde's face fell to its usual degree of set depression. “What do they want me to do?” he inquired, with that air of resignation which is in reality no resignation at all. “Well,” said Mrs. Agar volubly, “it appears that Arthur spoke to Dora at Hurlingham, and for some reason she said No. I can't understand it at all. I am sure she has always appeared to like him very much. It may have been some passing fancy or something, you know. When she is told that it would please us all, perhaps she will change her mind. Poor Arthur is terribly cut up about it. Of course a man in his position does not quite expect to be treated cavalierly like that.” Mr. Glynde smiled. Behind the parson there was somewhat even better; there was a just and honest English gentleman, which, in the way of human species, is very hard to beat. “I am afraid Arthur will have to manage such affairs for himself. When a girl is settling a question involving her whole life she does not usually pause to consider the position of the man who asks her to be his wife. He would have no business to ask her had he no position, and the rest is merely a matter of degrees.” “Then you don't care about the match?” said Mrs. Agar, to whose mind the earliest rudiments of logic were incomprehensible. “I do not say that,” replied the Rector, with the patience of a man who has had dealings with women all his life; “but I should like it to be understood that Dora is quite free to choose for herself. I am willing to tell her that the match would be satisfactory to me. Arthur is a gentleman, which is saying a good deal in these days. He is affectionate, and, so far as I know, a dutiful son. I have little doubt he would make a good husband.” Mrs. Agar wiped away an obvious tear, which ran off Mr. Glynde's mental epidermis like water off the back of the proverbial fowl. This also he had learnt in the course of his dealings with the world. “He has been a good son to me,” sniffed the fond and foolish mother. Neither of these persons was capable of understanding that “goodness” is not all we want in husband or wife. These good husbands--heaven help their wives!--break as many hearts as those who are labelled by the world with the black ticket. “Then I may tell Arthur that you will help him?” said Mrs. Agar, with a sudden access of practical energy. “You may tell him that he has my good wishes, and that I will point out to Dora the advantages of--acceding to his desire. There are, of course, advantages on both sides, we know that.” As usual, Mrs. Agar overdid things. The airiness of her indifference might have deceived a child of eight, provided that its intellect was not _de première force._ “Ye-es,” she murmured, “I suppose Dora would bring her little--eh--subscription towards the household expenses. Sister Cecilia gave me to understand that there was a little something coming to her under her mother's marriage settlement.”